


Crowned With Flowers

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Fellowship of the Ring, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 88
Words: 116,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Third Age draws to a close, Caradhras's prophecy looms over Khamul, who has to come to terms with a world ruled by Sauron or Morgoth. The Witch-King struggles to prevent Morgoth from taking over his body and mind, and finally, the One Ring has been unearthed, and its reclamation by Sauron or destruction in Mount Doom will decide the fate of the Nazgul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Peculiar Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

You didn't see much of the Easterlings in the land anymore. Old Primela could remember seeing one once, just once. The orcs were still plentiful, but they stayed out of her lands. Goblins, on the other hand, would sometimes steal livestock, but they were more of a nuisance than a threat. The close proximity of the river kept most of the dangers away. It also created some. Or so she strongly suspected.  
Gathering her courage, Primela walked into the middle of the road and stood there, right in front of the horse.  
"Get out of my way," the woman snapped. Primela, having never ventured outside her village, had never seen a Haradrim and so guessed the woman to be a dark Easterling. Her hair was mostly braided and hung to a little below her shoulders. Her eyes were dark as pitch and her teeth were white. She seemed at once more and less…real, than everything else around her. It was a feeling to which Primela was familiar. Unfortunately.  
"I want to talk with you," Primela said.  
"Go away, Halfling," the woman snarled. "I've never been in this village before. I'm just passing through."  
"I want your expert advice."  
The woman rolled her eyes. What advice could a Haradrim warrior possibly give a Halfling farmer? "All right," she muttered. She didn't feel like spilling blood today. Besides, there was a peculiar feeling in the village. It made her hair stand up on edge. There was this faint tinge of something…brimstone, maybe. It was on the edge of her smell and whenever she tried to locate it, it would slip away.  
"I'll make a pot of tea," Primela offered as the woman dismounted and led her horse towards Primela's small home.  
The house didn't look much different than a human's, although it was much smaller. The chairs made the Haradrim's legs cramp. As she sat, Primela went through the house, opening all the windows and looking around, as if checking for something. It was very strange. But who knew with Halflings? Maybe this was something they always did.  
"I want to get straight to the point," Primela said, pouring a cup of steaming hot tea.   
"Fine by me," the Haradrim said, sipping the tea. It tasted like tree bark.  
"I've heard about a Black Easterling that haunts these lands, killing and maiming. That's you, isn't it?"  
"Might be."  
"Good."  
The Haradrim raised an eyebrow.  
Primela twisted her dress in her hand. "I have a favor to ask you. I'll pay, of course."  
"So it's not a favor."  
"Well no. It's more of a contract."  
"You want me to kill someone?" The Haradrim laughed. She would never have guessed that the peace-loving Halflings would ever desire to hire a hitman.  
"Yes," Primela said.  
The Haradrim laughed again. Primela was on the heavy side with large watery eyes and a bulbous nose. She had an air of stupid innocence. And to think that she wanted someone killed.  
"It's not funny," Primela said. "And be quiet! He mustn't know." She looked fearfully in the corners, eyes flicking across the floor, searching for some sign.  
"Who is it then?" the Haradrim asked. She was curious now. Who would a Halfling want dead, and why?  
"My nephew," Primela whispered, leaning close. "He's gone mad."  
"Can he turn himself invisible as well?" the Haradrim asked. "You keep looking around like he's going to jump out of thin air."  
"He can!" Primela exclaimed. "He sneaks into neighbors' yards and strangles their chickens! But he's invisible so no one can see him!"  
"So how do you know it's him?"  
"He's invisible, but he casts a shadow. I saw something killing the chickens, and I saw his shadow!"  
"You're imagining things," the Haradrim said. "People – especially Halflings – don't turn invisible."  
"He does!"  
"No, he doesn't. You're the one who's mad."  
Primela was close to tears. "He's going to kill us all! He's gone completely mad! Please, you have to help us!"  
"Drive him out of the village then. This isn't my problem." The Haradrim stood up, nearly bumping her head on the ceiling. "I've got bigger problems than this."  
"He makes this peculiar noise," Primela said. "In the back of his throat. It sounds like…" She tried to do an imitation and only managed to sound like a dying frog.  
The Haradrim snorted. "Sounds like the problem'll take care of itself if that's the sound he's making." She walked out the door, leaving Primela to sob quietly in the house.  
As the Haradrim continued down the road, she noticed an increase in the brimstone stench. Or was it brimstone? It might've been something else. Something hot. If molten metal had a smell, this was it.  
Glancing around, she spied a gaunt and gangly Halfling lurching down the road, almost on all fours.  
"Are you Primela's mad nephew?" she called.  
The thing jerked its head up and looked at the Haradrim. There was madness in those eyes, definitely. He was filthy, his clothes were torn, and his hair was greasy and lank. He bared his teeth, which were little more than jagged bits of yellow bone.  
"What doessss it wantsss?" he hissed, a hand going to a small pocket.  
"Nothing," the Haradrim said. "Can you really turn yourself invisible?"  
"Maybe." The eyes looked shifty.  
"You should probably leave. Your villager friends want you out of their land."  
"Nasssty villagersss," he snarled. "Hatesss them. Hatess them, precioussss." He made a horrible noise in the back of his throat. It sounded like, "Gollum! Gollum!"  
"Disgusting creature," the Haradrim muttered. Casting the mad creature a glance of disgust, she nudged her horse along the road, eager to be away from this village and its mad inhabitant. The strange smell faded, but it was still there, on the very edges of her senses. No matter how far she went, it was always there.


	2. The White Council

"I have gathered you here today to inform you of a grievous event." Gandalf looked from face to face in the circle. They were all grim and serious. "The Watchful Peace is at an end. The evil in Dol Guldor has returned."  
"Alas for this," Saruman said, shaking his head. "For so long we have dwelt in peace and prosperity. Yet, we all knew this would come, I think."  
There were general nods of agreement, mostly from the elves. Galadriel cast Saruman what could only be described as a suspicious glance. The lone Man seemed to look grimmer.  
"What dwells in those black halls?" Cirdan asked. "Gandalf?"  
"I have not been able to discern it," Gandalf admitted. Saruman smirked, though he hid it well. "I can only guess that it is the Witch-King of Angmar, returned from Minas Morgul."  
"He was last seen riding east," Glorfindel pointed out.  
"It could be any of the Nazgul," Celeborn said. "But the Witch-King is the most likely suspect."  
"How strange," Galadriel commented, "that they still exist. Should they not have perished with their Master? Or do they live while the One Ring exists?"  
Her words caused the room to fall silent. "Are you suggesting something?" Saruman asked. "Perhaps that there is a new Dark Lord to command them?"  
"I suggest no such thing," Galadriel said. "There are two Dark Lords. One has been imprisoned by the Valar. And the second…"  
"Then you are suggesting that it is Sauron himself in Dol Guldor?"  
"The power that rots Thranduil's forest is mightier than the Witch-King."  
"He could've grown stronger over the years. The Nazgul took Minas Ithil after all," Glorfindel said.   
"And why would they do that?" Galadriel asked. "Unless they had need of it."  
"Need of it?" Elrond asked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean to suggest that they are preparing the way for Sauron's return?"  
"As long as the One Ring exists, a door is open for Sauron's return," Galadriel said. "We must find the Ring, and destroy it."  
Saruman snorted. "It cannot be done. The One Ring was forged in the fires of Orodruin. It is impossible to destroy!"  
"It's probably in the depths of the ocean by now," Glorfindel said. "Saruon – if he exists – will never be able to find it."  
Galadriel's face fell and her eyes hardened.  
"I think we should hear what our lone Man has to say about this," Saruman said, turning to the human. "What does the Chieftain of the Dunedain say?"  
"I…er…" Arahad began. "I think…well…"  
"Why did you come in the first place if you have nothing to say?" Saruman asked, shaking his head.  
"I came because a dark shadow is stalking my people!" Arahad snapped. "I think it is one of the Nazgul! Specifically, the one that stirred up the Wainriders and Haradrim against Gondor!"  
Gandalf's face grew grim. Saruman laughed. "Blaming some assassin on the Nazgul! Yes, very plausible. Why would they care about you?"  
"I am the heir of Isildur!"  
"Heir of a broken, ruined house. They wouldn't care if you lived or died."  
"One would," Gandalf muttered, but he was too quiet for anyone to hear.  
"The Nazgul want all heirs of Isildur dead," Galadriel said. "Arahad is the heir of both Isildur and Anarion, the last in Arda. He could lay claim to the throne of Gondor."  
Both Arahad and Saruman snorted. "They wouldn't even let me pass through the gates," Arahad said.  
"Nevertheless, someday a Chieftain may arise who would wish to unite the kingdoms," Galadriel said. "The Nazgul do not want this to happen, so they will hunt you until you and all your kin are dead."  
"I figured as much," Arahad muttered.  
"It is a shame about the Chieftain and his people," Saruman said. "But we have the more pressing matter of Dol Guldor. I propose that we establish a council made up of those who are here. Obviously when the Chieftain dies, his son will take his place."  
Arahad shot Saruman a glare for the jibe at his mortality.  
"That seems wise," Elrond said. "Who will lead us?" He looked at Gandalf.  
"The offer is kind," the wizard said, "but I will be bound by none but Valinor. I decline."  
"Then perhaps the other Maia should lead us?" Elrond asked, looking to Saruman.  
"Your offer is most gracious, and accepted," the White Wizard said. "I will be honored to lead this council through what will undoubtedly be a troubled time."  
Galadriel sighed. "We are fighting the Long Defeat," she said quietly. "Victory now seems even further away."  
*  
"You were very quiet, Arahad," Gandalf commented as they left the council room in Rivendell.  
"What could I say in front of so many lords?" the Chieftain asked. "Galadriel, the queen of Lorien. Celeborn, the wisest elf in all Arda. And Master Elrond himself! What could I say?"  
"It is good you were there though," Gandalf said. "The evil of Dol Guldor will not stay within the confines of Mirkwood. It will soon venture out, across the Misty Mountains even. I suspect you will see some of it soon enough."  
"My Rangers can deal with goblins and orcs," Arahad said. "What we can't deal with is this Black Easterling."  
Gandalf sighed. "Yes, the Haradrim. That is what she is, in fact."  
"You know her? It's a her?"  
"Yes to both. Her name is Khamul, and you are right Arahad, she is a Nazgul."  
Arahad frowned. "Why do you not destroy her then? She is but a wraith while you are a Maia."  
Gandalf chuckled. "If only things were so simple," he said. "The Valar made me swear an oath not to challenge Sauron directly, and I believe that would include his servants. Unless she comes after me, I won't go after her."  
"She's killing my people!"  
Gandalf lay a hand on Arahad's shoulder. "If she were not here, it would be another. There is no point in killing her, if such a thing can be accomplished by might less than that of an Ainu. Besides, I have a feeling that her part in this world's tale is not yet done."  
"Your foresight? Can you see something?" Arahad asked.  
"She has a destiny," Gandalf said. "And if I or any other were to take that from her, then I cannot foresee the consequences."  
"Would not another come to take her place?" Arahad asked wryly.  
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. This is a destiny that Caradhras itself told me of, and I do not think Khamul's death fits into its plans."  
"Caradhras? The mountain?" Arahad gasped.  
"Yes, the mountain. It's a very peculiar one. You should visit it sometime, though it may not let you cross. It has very definite ideas about who crosses and who doesn't."


	3. Eorl

"Isn't he just the cutest baby you ever saw?"  
"Ohhhh, he's such a cute baby!"  
"Awwww."  
Khamul gritted her teeth and tried to choke down some wine. It didn't work very well. She hated traveling these lands. They had changed so much since the fall of Angmar. The power of the Nazgul had moved south, to Minas Morgul, but Khamul found her heart still dwelt in the north, in the ruins of Arnor. And here as well, in this forsaken corner of wilderness.  
"I'm sorry about that," a maid said, walking over with a platter of bread. "My sister gave birth quite recently. Isn't he a cute baby?"  
"Yeah, he's great," Khamul said. "He'll be a great man someday. No doubt about that. How much is the bread?"  
"We don't have much use for money out here. Do you have something to trade?"  
Khamul handed her several arrowheads. "That should pay for the bread and the wine," she said.  
"Oh, thank you," the woman said. "These will be good for hunting."  
Hunting. That's all they think about. It doesn't even enter their heads that they could conquer the land. These Eotheod are the strongest tribe for miles around. They should use that power.  
"Do you want a place to stay tonight?" the woman asked.  
"No," Khamul said. This place was a dump. "I'll be on my way in a minute."  
"Suit yourself."  
The throng of women around the baby began to thin, and Khamul caught a glimpse of the thing. It had lost its red color and looked passably human. There was a fierce, vicious gleam in its blue eyes and it was already squirming and thrashing about.  
Nasty little thing, Khamul thought. Looks violent. Maybe he'll be the one to get these people together and show them that they're strong.  
"Admiring my son?" a man asked. He was a tall, big man who looked like he could tackle anything. "I'm Leod, owner of this tavern and headman of the village."  
"Your wife makes good bread," Khamul said. "And your son looks," Almost like a member of the human race, "very handsome."  
Leod grinned. He had a genial, honest smile. "His name's Eorl."  
"Eorl," Khamul repeated. It sounded strange. "Eorl."  
"A good name," Leod said. "You can hold 'im if you like."  
"Er…"  
"Here." Leod picked up the thrashing infant and dumped him in Khamul's arms. The baby stilled instantly. "A woman's touch," his father said knowingly.  
No, Khamul thought, looking into the baby's eyes. No. Definitely not.   
The baby's eyes went from general frustration at a world they could not properly navigate to pure and utter loathing. Funny. Khamul didn't know babies could tell what she really was.  
Slowly, deliberately, Eorl moved his head and sank his gums into Khamul's hand. She could feel teeth already coming in. This was a newborn? Really?   
"Sorry about that," Leod said, hastily snatching Eorl away. He began to thrash and squirm again. "He doesn't know he's not supposed to bite yet."  
"Well, he's a baby," Khamul said. "Thanks for the food. I've got to go."  
Eorl cast Khamul a look of pure loathing as she left.   
Khamul whistled for her horse and left the small village. She didn't know where to go. Hunt for more Dunedain? No, that was getting boring. She never got the chiefs anyway. She'd always get the chief's friend's cousin or something like that.  
Where to then? Back to Minas Morgul?   
Khamul heaved a sigh. What was it? Four hundred years she had been gone? Good riddance to them all. Except maybe Vorea. She was honest and lacked the conniving of the rest.  
Khamul let her horse take her where it willed. Apparently it wanted to go to Gondor.  
"Okay, bad idea," Khamul muttered and started to steer it to the north. She had no desire to fight off a whole regiment of Gondorian soldiers. Not right now anyway. She was feeling strangely…non-violent. For some reason the encounter with the Halfling and that thing that was her nephew was sticking in her mind. She'd traveled back there after sniffing around for the Dunedain chief and discovered that the thing had disappeared. Actually disappeared, not just gone invisible.  
Invisibility. The wretched creature must've found some magical trinket from the Eldar Days. Still, there wasn't anything Khamul knew of that made a person go invisible. In fact, she'd never heard of a person going invisible! Except she'd done it once in Numenor. Almost. When Sauron had given her the Ring, Khamul hadn't noticed it, but everybody commented on how transparent she was.  
"I wasn't invisible though," Khamul muttered. "I was just transparent."  
And then there was Isildur. You didn't notice it, she thought, did you, that suddenly he was nowhere to be seen, and then he was right there? The Ring made him invisible. It fell off, and you got a clear shot. And then there was the odd smell. Kind of smelled like Mt. Doom, didn't it?  
Sensing a moment of intense panic, the horse stopped moving.  
"ARGHHH!"  
The horse continued back toward the north, hoping to avoid any kicking or slaps with the reins. It didn't move fast enough though. Nothing could move fast enough for Khamul just then.  
"THE DAMN HALFLING'S GOT THE RING!"


	4. To Moria

"Are we going to do something stupid again?" Aica asked.  
Morion frowned. He would dearly have loved to throw her into Mt. Doom, but she had the most remarkable talent for gathering information. Morion had never seen one of her spies, but she knew everything that was happening everywhere. It was almost like she had a palantir…  
"No, we are not going to 'do something stupid again'," Morion said. "The last time we were testing Osgiliath's defenses."  
"It was stupid. We didn't take the city."  
"We were testing the defenses."  
"It was still stupid."  
Morion ground his teeth. He was surprised he hadn't worn them down to nothing over the centuries. "Nevertheless, I do not plan a new attack on Osgiliath for some time."  
"Good. What'd you want?"  
"Where is Khamul?"  
"I don't know," Aica said.  
"Can you find out?"  
"Sure."  
"How soon?"  
Aica shrugged. "When I get around to it."  
"When you get around to it?" Morion had difficulty keeping the disbelief and sarcasm out of his voice. What else did Aica have to do?  
"Vorea wants me to find out how many soldiers of Gondor are in a particular area of Ithilien, Ceure wants to know if there are any plans to rebuild Osgiliath, and now you want to know about Khamul. I've got a full plate!"  
"She's been gone for four centuries! I've heard tales of her vendetta against the Dunedain, but that's all. You'd think she'd at least write."  
"Missing her?" Aica asked.  
Morion glared at Aica. "Just find out where she is."  
"Shall I send a message to recall her back here as well?" Aica asked sweetly.  
"Not yet."  
There was a knock on the door and Ringe walked in. He had a stack of papers with him and looked like he was about to say something but then shut his mouth with a snap when he saw Aica. Likewise, Aica stopped talking and glared at her brother with such intense hatred, Morion was surprised one of them didn't drop dead on the spot.  
He'd hoped that things would calm down between them over the years. It had been centuries, after all, since Ringe had broken free of his – quite frankly – abusive sister and turned to Morion. Aica had never forgiven him for the betrayal. She didn't have a forgiving bone in her body.  
"I'll get it done," Aica snarled and walked out. Morion winced as she slammed the door. He'd have to get it repainted soon if this kept up.  
"What are the papers about?" the chief ringbearer asked Ringe.  
"Huh? Oh, these. Requisition orders."  
"I didn't know orcs could write," Morion said, looking them over.  
"They can't. They can dictate though."  
"Ah, I see. I'll look through them. Thanks."  
"What did Aica want?"  
"I ordered her to look for Khamul."  
"Oh. It'll be nice to see her again."   
Morion glanced up at Ringe. The eighth ringbearer was…well, he was a little thick sometimes. Mostly naive though. He was utterly oblivious to Khamul's jealousy-fueled hatred of him.   
"She might be doing something more important than harassing Dunedain," Morion said. "If so, I'll let her keep at it. If not, then I'll give her a mission."  
"Oh, what?"  
"There are two people who need a very close eye kept on them."  
Ringe smiled. He knew who those two people were. It wasn't all that hard to guess.   
"Actually, I wondered if you could do something for me," Morion said.  
Ringe nodded. "This early in the morning?" he asked.  
"Uhhh…no." Morion blushed slightly. "Although that would be nice. You know that there's a balrog in Moria?"  
"Yes."  
"Sauron wants it on our side. It is quite determined to claim ownership over an abandoned mine for all eternity. This, while fortunate for the rest of Arda, is not exactly what we want."  
Ringe nodded, but he was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.   
"Therefore, Sauron has asked me to send someone to Moria to speak with this balrog about coming to Mordor."  
"Coming to Mordor?" Ringe squeaked. "But…but…it's a Maia!"  
"Regrettably, yes. Sauron will keep it under control though. I would send Khamul, but she's not here. I would send Vorea, but she's running the war. I would send Ceure, but she's in Minas Ano – Tirith, sorry. And I would send Aica, Yanta, or Metima, but I don't trust them."  
"And you wouldn't send Ancalime…?" Ringe asked. Because she's your sister and you don't want to see her get hurt, he finished in his head. Me, on the other hand…   
"She's not cut out for this life," Morion said. "Life as a simple noble of Numenor, or perhaps as a lady of Gondor, would have been better for her."  
"Why did Sauron give her a ring?"  
Morion shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "I suppose he had his reasons." Or it might just've been a fluke, like me.  
Ringe stopped himself from saying more. Ancalime was Morion's sister, after all. Ringe had a very good thing in Morion, and he knew it. He wasn't about to ruin it by telling the Witch-King that his sister was a weak-willed imbecile with the skeletal structure of twigs. Coming from Ringe this was particularly damning.  
"I'll head off to Moria then," Ringe said with a forced grin.  
"You don't have to go right now," Morion said with a sly smile. He moved the stack of papers to the side of the desk.  
"Actually, it works better if you're against the wall."  
"Ah."


	5. A Missing Halfling and a Glass of Wine

"What'd you mean he's not here?!" Khamul screamed.  
"It's your own fault!" Primela screamed back.  
"Where's your damn nephew?" Khamul gave the Halfling a shake for good measure.  
"He left! I don't know where he went! And good riddance to him!" Primela spat on the ground.  
"Which direction?" Khamul hissed. She had a fuzzy feeling in her head and she wished it would go away. She'd had that feeling several times over the centuries and she couldn't figure out what caused it. Probably anger.  
"I don't know!"  
"Does anyone know?" Khamul shouted at the gathered crowd of Halflings. "Anyone want to speak up, or do I have to start cutting off heads?"  
"I think he went north," one small farmer said. Another nodded. "He said something about going north."  
"North. Well, that's a start. That's good. Did he, perchance, have a ring with him?" Khamul's voice was back at a reasonable volume, but her hand was clenched around her sword's hilt so tightly that the knuckles were white.  
"Yes," someone said nervously. "A gold ring. He kept it hidden."  
Khamul closed her eyes. "Was it plain? No jewels or anything?"  
"It was a plain, gold ring."  
The hand that clenched the sword's hilt clenched tighter. "That river near the village," Khamul hissed. "Is it, just maybe, the Anduin?"  
"Yes…"  
"And did your nephew – Smeagol, was it? – first start acting strange after a fishing trip?"  
"Yes," Primela said. "He went out fishing with his cousin, Deagol. The poor lad never came back, and Smeagol was all changed."  
"I see," Khamul said. Her eyes were still closed. "Well, I am going to the north. And I better find this sorry bastard."  
"What should we do if he comes back?" someone asked.  
"Kill him," Khamul growled. Because that's sure what I'm going to do when I find him. Kill him and take the Ring. For myself.  
The thought was so ludicrous Khamul almost laughed. She doubted very much that the Ring would work for her. It had one master, and he was currently whiling away the time in Dol Guldor right now.  
*  
"As always, I am honored to have such refined company at the dinner table," Sauron said. He toasted his guest with a glass of extremely fine red wine. "Particularly one of such high station."  
"I suspect I'm one of the few elves who've been here who hasn't had to be restrained," Legolas said.  
Sauron chuckled. "Well, quite," he said. "I must confess that I find it a bit strange that you – the son of King Thranduil – should show up on my doorstep."  
"Well, you are in my father's realm." The words didn't quite roll off the tongue. Sauron picked them apart and found that the pause had occurred on 'father'. He committed it to memory.  
"And I always welcome his son. Or, indeed, any elf," Sauron said.  
"For the slaughterhouse, I suspect."  
"Oh, the slaughterhouse is quite outdated, I assure you. If you truly wish to know, I prefer to have some nice chats with my guests."  
"Torture."  
"Call it what you like."'  
"Do you want to know why I came to Dol Guldor?" Legolas asked.  
"I must admit that I am curious," Sauron said.  
"I found it strange that Sauron the Abhorred hasn't been found out yet. I was beginning to suspect my intuition and had to see for myself."  
The pleasantries were at an end. Sauron's eyes went black and cold. He was the Necromancer of Dol Guldor. He was also one of the Nazgul, the Witch-King himself, perhaps. He was a mysterious force from the east. Perhaps another balrog from Moria. Whatever he was, he was definitely not Sauron.  
"I do not know what you are talking about," Sauron said. "Perhaps you are mistaken." He smiled politely, but his teeth were sharp and seemed longer than before.  
"I am not," Legolas said. He seemed different as well. Older than his few centuries. There was something about his eyes that profoundly disturbed Sauron. Very few things disturbed the Dark Lord, and none of them profoundly.  
"I am not Sauron."  
"Oh, but you are. You are the Lord of the Barad-dur, except that your tower is in ruins. How unfortunate."  
"You are not Thranduil's son," Sauron said.  
"I am Legolas."  
"No, I said you are not Thranduil's son. I never said you were not Legolas."  
"How can I be one but not the other?"  
"You may be called Legolas, perhaps even named Legolas, but you are not the sickly child Thranduil took to Lorien to be miraculously healed."  
"Perhaps I changed," Legolas said.  
Sauron smiled like a predator. "No one changes that much," he said. "You think you are powerful and mighty, ready to match wits with me. You are not."  
Legolas's eyes flashed, but they were not the eyes of a young Sindar, but the eyes of a proud Noldo, one Sauron had known only too well.  
"Ah, Feanor. I knew nothing could keep you from Arda."  
"At last we know each other by our true names," the elf muttered.  
"Yes, I suppose that is good. I can guess the tale of your return, but why?"  
"To escape your master," Feanor said.  
Sauron paled slightly and Feanor smirked. "So you were trapped with him then. I almost pity you."  
"I escaped," Feanor said. "And found myself in this delightful new body."  
"And you have come back to the cage? They liken me to a lesser Melkor, the elves do."  
"I wanted to see if that was true. I don't think it is."  
"What do you think then?"  
"I think that you fear human realms, a human lord, and two withered old Maia."  
Sauron frowned and the temperature in the room dropped. "Realms?" he asked. "There is Gondor, which I do not fear, but there is no other."  
"Not yet," Feanor said with a nasty smile. "And you do fear it. There can be no secrets between us."  
"You have foresight then. That is something you did not have before."  
Feanor snorted. "If I did, I would've ignored it."  
"And this human lord of which you spoke?"  
"Arvedui's heir. He could grow up some day and claim both the thrones of Gondor and Arnor."  
"Perhaps I find that thought unpleasant, but I do not fear it," Sauron said. He looked over at the reincarnated elf. "The body you wear is changing to look more like your old one," he commented.  
"It took you long enough to notice," Feanor said. His eyes glittered. "Perhaps to see if the rumors were true wasn't the only reason I came here."  
Sauron raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? I do remember in the days before the Silmarils spending some time with a Noldorian smith."  
"And I with a fire-loving Maia."  
"Ah, you malign me. I have no love of fire for its destruction, but for the emptiness it creates. Emptiness that begs to be filled."  
Feanor's smile turned twisted. "The Void is devoid of fire, yet it is an empty place," he said. "A place you will see all too soon."  
"That is where you are wrong," Sauron said. "I will never go to the Void. Never."  
"If your precious Ring is destroyed, you will."  
Sauron smiled back. "You think so, do you? Very well, continue to think that."  
"Would you care to enlighten me?"  
"No."  
Feanor shrugged. "Very well then," he said. He stood up. "I will be on my way."  
"I do not think so." Sauron moved quickly, and was soon standing next to Feanor. "I have no qualms about letting you go…for a price."  
"As twisted as your master, aren't you?"  
Sauron smiled and gently lifted a stray strand of hair from Feanor's face. "Beautiful," he commented.  
"Perhaps I was overly hasty in rejecting you," Feanor murmured, pulling Sauron close. "Perhaps I should have given you a second chance after you sided with Him."  
"Perhaps you were," Sauron said, leaning close. His lips parted slightly and his eyes almost closed, waiting to feel the softness of Feanor's mouth. The body might be different, but the soul was the same. It would taste like fire.  
A searing, stabbing pain shot through his body like knives. Sauron gave a short shriek of agony and doubled over. He received two kicks to the chest as well as several to the head.  
"I would never dream of bedding a servant of Morgoth," Feanor spat, kicking Sauron once more before turning and sprinting out of the halls.  
He could not be killed, could not be hurt by mortal weapons, but Feanor was one of the Calaquendi, and the greatest elf who ever lived. The Dark Lord lay on the floor for a while, nursing his pains as well as the blow to his pride. Not to mention the betrayal. Although he should've seen that coming. Feanor would never resume their brief relationship.   
Staggering to his feet, Sauron checked himself in a mirror. There was no blood, but quite a lot of bruising. It was healing as fast as it was appearing.   
He considered sending out the wolves and alerting the spiders. On second thought, no, he wouldn't. Why bother? He would only let Feanor go…eventually. And he would be Sauron's soon enough. Oh yes. Soon. Sauron had the patience of a Vala, but the time was coming. Now all he needed was the Ring.


	6. The Hunt for Gollum

Aica shut the door, locked it, and put up the crossbar before retiring to her bed, where she pulled out the palantir and gazed into it. It wouldn't do for anyone to learn where she got her information from, and Morion had been nosing around lately.  
The seventh ringbearer had a general hatred and dislike of all inhabitants of Arda, but there were two special places in her heart reserved for Morion and Ringe. Before his betrayal, Ringe had been the only person Aica would trust, and she had even liked him sometimes. Now though…the hatred she felt for him was only exceeded by the loathing she felt for Morion. The mere thought of the Witch-King caused bile to surge and made her hands shake with fury. She wanted to rip out his eyes, flay his skin, and cut out his heart.   
Banishing her thoughts with a shake of her head, Aica focused on the palantir. She had learned much from it, not the least of which was concentration.   
Khamul, she thought. Where is she now?  
When Aica had last looked, the Haradrim had been in a vicious argument with a Halfling. Strange, yes, but about what? Though the palantir did not allow a person to listen in to a conversation, Aica had grown quite adept at lip-reading over the years.  
Khamul's looking for a deranged Halfling. Why?   
Perhaps her next actions would provide the answer.  
Color swirled inside the crystal globe. There was Khamul, thundering across the countryside. Aica recognized it both from years prowling around it in service to Angmar, but also as her homeland. The former realm of Arnor.  
What's she doing there? Aica wondered.  
Spotting a traveler, Khamul yanked her horse to a stop and snapped a question at the poor man.  
"Have you seen a Halfling?" Aica muttered, reading Khamul's lips. "'No', the traveler says. 'Have you noticed anything strange then? Chickens gone missing, things moving when no one's around?'"  
This was getting stranger and stranger. Was this a magical Halfling? Wait. Things moving when nobody's around. It's invisible! It's an invisible Halfling!  
Aica grinned in glee at discovering this tidbit of information. She didn't concern herself with how the Halfling could turn itself invisible. Maybe it was something some of them could do. The only question left was why Khamul cared so much about it. Maybe it knew something.  
The traveler had replied in the negative to Khamul's questions, and so the second ringbearer was back galloping down the road. Sensing the scene would repeat itself several more times, Aica withdrew her mind from the palantir and put it back under her bed.   
Now, what should she tell Morion? Aica was very selective about what the Witch-King learned and didn't learn from her. Best to leave out the Halfling thing, she thought. A clan of invisible Halflings could be very useful to me in the future.   
So then, Khamul was in the north, looking for something or another. Good. Nice and vague. And he'd send somebody to give her something else to do. And that would keep Khamul out of trouble.  
It seemed that everyone was keeping out of trouble, and out of Aica's way, these days. Ceure was in Minas Tirith, Khamul was in the north, Vorea was always busy with the war, Ringe was off to Moria, Ancalime didn't matter, and Metima and Yanta were inconsequential. The only person left was Morion. And one day Aica would take care of him too.  
*  
As both the traveler and the fuzzy feeling in her head faded, Khamul wondered where in all Arda this Halfling could have gone. He'd left his village only thirteen days ago. He couldn't have gotten far.  
But he had the Ring.  
The thought sent a fresh surge of panic through Khamul. The Halfling had the Ring, and she had to get it back before Sauron realized it had been found, and was once again missing. And – most importantly – that Khamul had had it only five feet from her and she hadn't noticed.  
If I don't find it, I'm not going to say a thing, Khamul told herself. What Sauron doesn't know won't hurt him. Well, actually, it might, but who cares. He's got it coming.  
As Khamul spurred her horse down the road, searching the sunlight for shadows and the trees for a pale Halfling, an agile creature jumped out from behind a log.  
"Hunts us, precious," it hissed, scurrying deeper into the thick brush. "Hunts us. We must flee from it, precious." It glanced around, looking for a likely permanent hiding place. Its gaze fell on the far-off Misty Mountains. "Deep, dark stones," it cackled, lurching toward the peaks. "Hides us forever, precious. Gollum! Gollum!"


	7. Kill Them All

"You haven't found my elf yet."  
"Been…looking…argh!"  
"Don't lie to me!" Melkor hissed. "You think the war with Gondor is more important, and I agree. But if you neglect the little details," He paused, digging claws into tender skin, "then the whole plan falls apart."  
"Stop!" Morion gasped. It always ended like this. He'd bite his lip to keep from screaming, from pleading, but it would always end with a bloody, mangled lip and the awful words spilling out of his mouth.  
Melkor removed his hands from Morion's body, licking the blood off his fingers. "Whatever is the matter? I thought you enjoyed this. Especially…"  
Morion's face went deathly pale as the Dark Lord's head vanished from his vision. "NO! NO! AGHH!"  
"Numenorean blood," Melkor whispered almost reverently, swallowing and licking his lips. His teeth were still stained red.   
"Please…what do you want?"  
"Must I want something? Perhaps I only want my slave's company."  
"No, you always want something. What is it?"  
"My apprentice is a fool if he thinks he can keep me completely out." Melkor leaned close to Morion's ear. The Witch-King could smell the blood on his breath. "I gave him the idea about sending your little slut to Moria."  
Morion closed his eyes. Dammit. He should've known. The balrog…oh Valar, the balrog. It would tear Ringe to pieces. No. It would do far worse. And Morgoth would make him watch.  
"It doesn't have to end like that," Melkor whispered. "Lungorthin listens to me. If I give him an order, he will obey. It can all be quite painless."  
"And in exchange…?"  
"The time is coming," Melkor said, lazily drawing circles on Morion's chest. "Soon I will be able to leave this land and inhabit your body. Won't that be pleasant? To be here all alone."  
But Morgoth would be loose in the world. Morion shuddered.  
"I am a Vala, fallen though I may be," Melkor said. "If you want me to spare your whore, then I require two things."  
"What are they?" Morion asked.  
"Kill all of Isildur's heirs. The line must go extinct."  
"Khamul's working on that, but the Valar's blessing to Luthien –"  
Melkor snarled. "There are other lines! The blessing does not matter!"  
Morion nodded, trying to keep the fear out of his face. "And the other thing?"  
"There is a tavern owner in the north, in a village of the Eotheod. His name is Leod. Kill him and his son. Soon."  
Morion frowned. "A tavern owner?" he asked. "You want me to kill a tavern owner?"  
"Yes," Melkor snarled. His glinted. "Do you question me?"  
"It seems strange, that's…argh!"  
"Do it," Melkor hissed. His white teeth elongated to black fangs. "Do it. And do it soon."  
Morion nodded and stretched back his head, exposing his neck to the fangs.  
The fangs savaged his neck, shredding flesh and tissue, scraping against his vertebrae.   
Morion awoke with a start, sweaty and breathing hard. His body ached. It's all a dream, he thought, rubbing his head. It's a horrible dream with some bearing on reality, but it is still a dream.  
He was grateful for once that Ringe was gone. He didn't feel like physical contact today.  
As he stood up, Morion gasped in horror. His body was covered in bruises. They were healing before his eyes, but he saw traces of blood on his body that hinted there had once been cuts as well. The punishments in the dreams were becoming more and more real.  
Shivering, Morion dressed quickly and called for Aica. The seventh ringbearer slunk into the room, glaring with the usual sneer on her lips.  
"Have you found Khamul yet?" Morion asked.  
"Yeah."  
"Where is she?"  
"She's away in the north, looking for something," Aica said.  
"What is she looking for?"  
Aica shrugged. "Probably the Dunedain chief, as usual."  
Morion rolled his eyes. He quickly scrawled a note and handed it to Aica. "Send someone to give this to her." And I'll know if she doesn't get it, he told her with a glare.  
"Sure thing," Aica said. She didn't wait for him to dismiss her but walked out. A hunchback goblin limped in before the door closed.  
"Ah, Grish," Morion said. "I wanted to see you."  
"I thought you might, lord," the goblin said with a lopsided grin. "How may I be of service?" He executed an awkward bow.  
"Take as many goblins as you can on wargs and kill two men. Leod and his son. They live in a village of the Eotheod. Actually, just burn the whole town."  
"Yes, my lord," Grish said, smiling with ghastly teeth. "It will be easy going through Gondor what with the Balchoth causing the steward such a hard time."  
"Ah yes," Morion muttered. "I'd forgotten them. Descendants of those Easterlings Khamul stirred up, I think."  
"Shall we recruit them for our cause?"  
Morion shook his head. "Gondor will take care of them. There isn't a point."   
Grish nodded and left. He never argued with his lord, and so he didn't bother to point out that the Balchoth had effectively overrun Gondor's northern provinces. They also seemed poised to send the entire army of mighty Gondor running.   
Something disturbed Grish. His master was usually so on top of things. So calm, cool, and concentrated. He always had a plan, always knew everything that was happening. Grish had a few ideas about what was different now. Firstly, he was relying too much on the seventh Shrieker. She was a nasty liar, and if even Grish knew it, he was surprised that Morion couldn't tell the same thing. The Dark Lord must be preying on his master's mind more heavily than usual.  
"I want a thousand goblins on wargs," Grish snarled to a subordinate. "No, make that orcs. Yes, definitely orcs." Orcs had problems taking orders from goblins, but Grish was high up in the hierarchy. They'd better listen to him if they knew what was good for them.  
"We don't have a thousand wargs," the subordinate hissed. He was a repulsive creature with scars criss-crossing his face. They were so heavy on one side that they completely buried his right eye.  
Grish snarled. "Then how many do we have?" he growled.  
The subordinate checked a ragged list. "Three hundred."  
"Three hundred? That's pathetic!"  
"What'd you need 'em for?"  
"None of your damn business! Get me a thousand wargs!"  
"Don't have them," the subordinate snapped. "You'll have to wait if you want 'em."  
There had been something in Morion's tone that had told Grish that waiting was not an option. "I'll take the three hundred." He would make it work. Grish had not risen through the orc-dominated ranks because of his good looks.


	8. Eorl's Fury

Khamul rode back into the small village some time after she'd given up the hunt for the wretched Halfling. Time was meaningless to her, and she had no idea how long it had been since she'd been here last. Things looked different, including a fine horse at the tavern stable.  
"Nice horse," she commented to the barkeeper as she walked in. He looked about sixteen.   
The reactions were strange. Several of the women in the tavern gasped, a few even began to cry. The barkeep threw down a rag he was using to wash off the filthy counter.  
"Let's talk outside," he said. He had a very mature bearing for one so young.  
"I take it the horse is a sensitive subject?" Khamul hissed, following him out. What had prompted these odd reactions? Was the horse some kind of sacred object?  
"Two things," the man said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. Well, at least he could count. "One, that horse killed my father. Two, you are a vile creature."  
Did he learn this from someone else, or had he come up with it on his own? Khamul wondered. "Really? And what's your proof?" she snarled. Maybe I should just cut off his head.  
"I assume you're talking about yourself. I hardly need proof that my father was killed by the horse."  
"Yes. Me. What about it?"  
"I remember you," the man said. He had bright yellow hair and a tan complexion from working outside. His eyes were blue-gray and sparkled with intensity. "I was only a newborn at the time, but I remember evil."  
Eorl? No. She couldn't have been gone that long. "You're Leod's son?" Khamul gasped.  
"Yes. And you haven't changed at all," Eorl said with a malicious smile. "Evil can preserve itself for eternity, it is said. Apparently that's true."  
"I didn't come here to get in a fight," Khamul snapped. "I want some food and wine. That's it. Although if you want a fight, I'd be more than happy to oblige."   
As Khamul's hand went to her sword, Eorl pulled out a knife from its sheath. "I'm very good with this," he warned.  
Khamul snorted. "You're an overzealous youth. You think you're invincible. Well, let me tell you something, boy: You aren't! The only person who's invincible here is me!"  
"We'll see about that!" Eorl moved very fast, but Khamul dodged his strike to her arm. She drew her sword in a fluid motion while kicking him in the back of the knees. Eorl went down like a rock.   
"Your father struck me as a very decent person," Khamul hissed, her sword at Eorl's throat. "The only thing I do to decent people is kill them. Let's call it even if I don't kill you."  
"Why would a minion of evil not strike?" Eorl muttered, looking at the blade.  
"I'm tempted, believe me."  
"…Very well," Eorl said after some thought. "I…believe you. If all you want is food and drink, we can provide that."  
"Good," Khamul said, sheathing the sword. "And no more of that nonsense. You're liable to get yourself killed."  
Eorl rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.  
Khamul was enjoying a very good meal of mutton stew, wine, and the excellent bread, when a bloody man ran into the tavern.  
"Eorl! Orcs!" he cried. "They ride beasts! They mean to destroy the village!"  
Eorl shot Khamul a look of pure hatred and seized a spear leaning against the wall. "Rally everyone who can fight! Make sure they have weapons!" he ordered. "So you didn't just come here for a meal," he hissed to Khamul.  
"This isn't my doing," Khamul snapped. She sighed and stood up. "I'll go talk to them." She quite enjoyed this village and it would be a pain to have to travel around Middle-Earth without someplace to stop.  
Eorl's eyes widened. "You're just going to go out there and talk to them?" he gasped. "They're orcs!"  
Khamul smiled nastily. "I'm worse than an orc," she said. "Better get your people ready though. Just in case."  
The village was in chaos as elders and children were herded into houses while all able-bodied men and women seized sharp farm implements or ancestral weapons.   
The orcs appeared on the ridge of a nearby hill. They were riding wargs, Khamul saw. With a sigh she mounted her horse and rode out to meet them.  
Surprisingly, there was no flurry of arrows. The lead orc raised a hand to stop his people. He was smaller than most orcs Khamul had seen. Ah, no wonder. He was a goblin. But what was a goblin doing in charge of orcs? This smacked of Minas Morgul, and Morion.  
"Shrieker," the goblin said, managing a bow even from his position on the warg. The beast was snarling and spitting and foaming at the mouth. Its red eyes were wild with bloodlust.  
"What are you doing here?" Khamul asked.  
"I am here on the Lord Morion's orders to destroy this village and ensure a man known as Leod and his son are slain."  
"You're too late," Khamul said. "Leod's dead."  
"And his son?" the goblin asked.  
Yes or no? Either way, the orcs weren't turning back until the village was rubble. And there were far too many of them for the villagers to fight.  
"I don't know," Khamul said. "I didn't really stop by to see them."  
"Very well. Burn the village," the goblin said to his orcs. "Leave no one alive."  
"Hang on," Khamul snapped as the orcs tensed, ready to charge. "I'm a Nazgul! Let me handle this."  
"Lord Morion's orders were very specific," the goblin said.  
"I'll bet they were. But I outrank you. And I say Leod is dead and I'll handle his son!"  
"I have my orders," the goblin snarled. "Get out of my way or we'll run you down."  
A goblin dared to give her orders! Khamul drew her sword. "I'll cut your filthy head off!" she screamed.  
The goblin rolled his eyes and kicked his warg. The beast bolted down the hill, quickly followed by hundreds of others. Even the wargs – blood-mad creatures that they were – avoided Khamul and her horse, and they managed to escape the fray disoriented, but alive and unharmed.  
"Treacherous scum!" Khamul snarled as she watched plumes of smoke go up from the village. "Filthy goblin trash! I'm going to kill him!"   
"You won't get the chance to," Eorl hissed.   
Khamul whirled around. Eorl was seated on the fine horse she'd seen in the stables. He rode bareback but seemed completely at ease. His clothes were bloody, but his spear was dripping red.   
"This isn't my fault," Khamul hissed. "My superior," She hated that word, "ordered it!"  
"Why?" Eorl shouted. "Why did he want the village burned? We didn't do anything wrong!"  
"I don't know! He ordered it, and it got done! Nobody questions orders!"  
Eorl looked down at his home. "Everyone's dead," he said. "Felarof saved me from a pack of orcs and he ran here."  
Khamul was about to ask who Felarof was. Oh, it's the horse, she thought. He named his horse? Well, the boy's bound to have some peculiarities.  
"You say this isn't your fault," Eorl said, gesturing to the burning village. Behind his grief-stricken eyes, despite his youth, there gleamed the cunning spark of a mastermind.   
"No…" Khamul agreed warily.   
"Yet it occurred on your superior's orders. Therefore, I ask you to help make amends."  
"Make amends?!"   
"Yes. My people live scattered throughout these lands. Help me rally them together."  
"Why? For what purpose?"  
Eorl's eyes hardened. "Our lands are no longer safe if orcs may roam so freely and attack without fear."  
"And you think you can change that?"  
"I know I can. I have a plan. Help me fulfill it and I will discharge you from any debt you have because of this."  
"I have so much blood on my hands a little more isn't going to hurt," Khamul said.  
"But wouldn't you like to wipe some of it off?"  
Khamul snorted. "If I was to turn as good as Varda today, it would take the rest of eternity to clean my hands of blood."  
"You certainly aren't going to get anywhere if you don't try," Eorl said. "Help me. Your superior said nothing about helping me, did he?"  
"Actually, he said to kill you," Khamul said. And I'm beginning to see why, she thought.  
Eorl chuckled. "Well then, go right on ahead. If you can."  
"I didn't spare your life outside the tavern just to kill you now," Khamul said. "But I won't help you rally your people."  
"Very well," Eorl said. He looked back down at his village and the orc hordes. "They have much to pay for," he said, his voice quiet and taut with fury. "This is personal now."  
And woe betide anyone who makes things personal with Eorl, Khamul thought. Or any of his descendants, I'll be guessing. Probably find out, too.


	9. The Battle of the Fields of Celebrant

"My lord! The orcs and the Balchoth continue to press on! We cannot hold them back!"  
Cirion cursed and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Keep trying," he snapped. "Their advance stops now."  
The soldier shook his head. He didn't stop until Cirion seized him by the shoulders and shook him until his teeth rattled.  
"The cavalry," the soldier whispered. "They're all dead!"  
Cirion suppressed an exclamation of dismay. Gondor's cavalry had been their only hope. That they were all dead… There could be no possible victory for the southern kingdom.  
"The archers then, man! Shoot them full of arrows!"  
"There aren't enough! It's a rout, sir! A rout!"  
No! If the Balchoth continued their attack, they would be at Minas Tirith soon. The towers would fall, the city would burn, and everyone would be put to the sword or enslaved. And Cirion refused to let himself be remembered as the steward under whom this occurred.  
"We will win!" he shouted. "Rally them together for a last attack!"  
"It won't work, sir."  
"Do it!" Cirion bellowed. This was it, he thought. Their last stand. And oh, what a stand they would make.  
The hordes of Easterlings advanced slowly but deliberately, cutting down defenders wherever they stood. Their weapons glistened with blood and the edges gleamed in the bright light of the sun.  
Cirion could have sworn he heard a horn. The heat must be getting to him.   
"Did you hear that, sir?" the soldier whispered.   
"Hear what?"  
"The horn call, sir."  
It wasn't his imagination then. "Yes, I think I did. More Balchoth, I suppose."  
"No, sir. That wasn't one of their horns. Look, they're as confused as us."  
More orcs then, Cirion thought gloomily. It couldn't be allies. Gondor had no allies in this part of Arda.   
There was a ferocious, wild yell and horsemen stormed the field. One moment there had been thousands of Balchoth before Cirion, intent on slaughtering him and everyone in his army. Now there was only the rush of the wind as the horses stormed past.   
Cirion and his army waited with wide eyes, too stunned to move. It was an endless stream of horses and wild riders. They whooped and screamed as they slaughtered the Easterlings. One even rode his horse bareback. They seemed like savages, but they had come to Cirion's, Gondor's, aid when he needed it the most. If they made it out of there alive, he would have to reward their leader.  
Cirion had to do no more fighting that day. It was, indeed, a rout, but a rout of a very different kind than that which the steward had supposed would occur.   
"I…I…" Cirion stammered as he looked out over the field of trampled, mangled Balchoth. He hadn't in his wildest dreams imagined something like this. They were all dead. Every last one of them.  
"Came to your aid, didn't we?" the bareback rider asked, hopping down. Cirion's eyes bugged. He was a teenager.  
"Er…yes, you did."  
"Saved your skins, didn't we?"  
"Er…"  
"Saved Gondor, didn't we?"  
"Yes, I must admit, that you did a great thing," Cirion said. "A very great thing indeed." This…youth, is their leader?  
"Then I suppose we deserve a reward," the youth said with a smile. He was covered in blood, none of it his own. He was a savage, but as Cirion looked over the riders in the boy's army, he realized something else. He was a homeless savage.  
"Might I be correct in assuming that you have no home?" he asked.  
"Yes, you would be right," the youth said. "Orcs riding wolves." He spat.   
An idea was burgeoning in Cirion's mind. A very clever idea, if he did say so himself. "There is some land. It is called Calenardhon. It stretches from the foothills of the southern Misty Mountains to the White Mountains that make up Gondor's borders. Long it has belonged to Gondor, but it is an unpopulated land now, thanks to the Balchoth. You are welcome to it." Cirion left out the bit about the Dunlendings. A nasty, vicious people. Perhaps Eorl could get rid of them for Gondor. Or, at the very least, they weren't Cirion's problem anymore.  
Eorl grinned. "Thank you sir," he said. "All that for my people just for us saving your lives?"  
"And an oath of alliance," Cirion added hastily. He could use warriors like this. "We shall swear it on Amon Anwar."  
"Say what?"  
"We shall swear an oath of alliance upon a hill in my country."  
"And what does this oath entail?" Eorl's eyes narrowed.  
"I shall have a symbol...perhaps an arrow. If ever I have need of your aid, I will send the arrow to you. And you shall respond, if you are able."  
"That in exchange for all that land?" Eorl asked, gesturing vaguely to the west.  
"Yes," Cirion said.   
"Sounds good to me. Would a red arrow be a better idea than a plain one? A red arrow would be harder to lose."  
"Yes," Cirion said. "The Red Arrow it shall be." And now Gondor has fierce defenders to the north. Fierce defenders who will come when she calls. They will remember me for this. History will remember me.


	10. Discipline

The smoke from the burning of the Balchoths' bodies created a great black cloud that could be seen for miles and miles, even on the other side of the Misty Mountains. Khamul saw it as she sped toward Minas Morgul. She spared it scant attention.  
I'll have that goblin's head yet, she thought. He'll come back to the city, I know he will. He'll have to report to Morion, won't he?  
She grinned, thinking about the expression on the goblin's face when she knocked his head off. It would be well worth his insubordination.  
*  
"This is pointless," Ringe muttered, kicking a rock. He'd been wandering Moria for years. Years. And he hadn't seen so much as a sign of a balrog. It was empty, abandoned. There were signs everywhere that the dwarves had simply dropped whatever they were doing and fled. If there really had been a balrog, Ringe didn't blame them one bit.   
A fool's mission, Ringe thought, peering into a tunnel. It was as dark as all the others. He'd probably looked into this one nearly a hundred times already. Still, he wasn't coming back until he'd combed this place from top to bottom. He might've already. Perhaps he should go back to Minas Morgul. Morion must be missing him.  
"Looking for something?"  
Ringe gasped and spun around, drawing a knife. It wasn't a balrog before him. It couldn't be. It was too small, too…not-fiery.  
The man was about Ringe's height, maybe a little taller. He was stronger, but most men were stronger than Ringe. His hair and eyes were red, which sent chills down Ringe's spine. Maybe he was the balrog.  
He flashed a smile. "My name's Lungorthin. I think you've been looking for me."  
"Er…" Ringe stammered.  
"Yes, I'm a balrog. It's been quite amusing to watch your search. You've searched this section of Moria nearly fifty times."  
"Have I?"  
"Yes, you have. You're really quite hopeless."  
"Oh. Well…I'm glad you decided to show up," Ringe said. "Um…I, um, wanted to talk to you on behalf of my, um, lord."  
"Talk," the balrog said.  
"The Witch-King of Angmar, formerly of Angmar, and Sauron the Great would like you to, um, join their army."  
Lungorthin raised an eyebrow. "They want me to leave Moria?"  
"Uhh…yes."  
"I rather like it here."  
"You can…burn things out there?"  
"It's very quiet here. I've grown to like the quiet."  
"The goblins'll probably come back soon," Ringe said. "It won't be quiet then."  
There was a glitter in Lungothin's eyes that said that if the goblins weren't quiet then there wouldn't be goblins anymore.  
"Uh…well…I see how you feel," Ringe said. "I'll just go back to Minas Morgul and tell them that you'd rather stay here."  
"Why do you think I decided to show myself?" Lungorthin asked idly.  
"Er…I don't know."  
"My master is not your Witch-King, and nor is he Sauron. The only one I serve is Melkor, Master of Arda. His is the only will that I obey."  
"Ah…" Ringe didn't like where this was headed.  
"Your Witch-King swore to slay a man," Lungorthin said. "Sadly, tragically, he failed."  
"Er…I'll just leave now, shall I?" Ringe started edging away from the balrog. Was it his imagination, or was Lungorthin starting to glow?  
The balrog took a step forward. "Lord Melkor told him that if he failed, you would pay."  
Ringe paled and took off running down the hall. He doubted he could outrun a balrog, but he could try.   
A whip of fire caught him around the ankles. Ringe went down like a rock, cracking his head on the hard stone.  
"There's no use running," Lungorthin said. He was fully engulfed in flames now. His eyes burned so brightly Ringe couldn't look at them. There was something about fire…Ringe had been noticing it for a while now, but it was so hard to look at, so hard to be near flames. He didn't know whether the other ringbearers felt this way, but he suspected Morion did.  
"It burns," Ringe whimpered. The balrog's whip was magical and so was able to cause injury to his ring-protected flesh.  
"It's going to do a lot worse than that," Lungorthin hissed. "In the halls of Angband, I was one of those who 'questioned' the elves brought there. I tortured Maedhros himself! I made him beg for mercy!"  
This is bad, Ringe thought. This is really bad. He reached for one of his daggers, and Lungorthin's boot came down on his fingers.  
Ringe screamed as the fire shot through him. Bones cracked and splintered under the force, but the fire was worse. The fire was so much worse.  
"And here we're only getting started," Lungorthin said with a smile.   
*  
The land around Minas Morgul was dead, marshy, and noxious. The smell was enough to make those of a weak stomach vomit, and those with a stronger constitution gag. Khamul wrinkled her nose, cast a furious glare at the white flowers that gave off the stench, and urged her horse toward the city.  
Minas Morgul, once the beauteous Minas Ithil, reflecting the pale glow of the moon, was now a hollow shell of its former self. The walls were a haunted, pale green. They glowed, lit from within by some dreadful sorcery. The hideous statues that stood guard on the bridge to the city were deformed creatures, so terrifying that they caused even the strongest man to shudder.  
Khamul's horse trotted across the bridge, visibly relieved to be home at last. There was some fear in its eyes though, as it surveyed the desolate wasteland.  
"Is there someone out here?" Khamul muttered, standing up in the stirrups and looking toward Minas Morgul's gates.   
The horse didn't reply, but stopped in the middle of the bridge, sensing another's presence.  
Khamul sighed and dismounted. Maybe it would be the goblin. That would be an excellent welcome-home present.  
It wasn't the goblin, or any goblin for that matter. It was a man, dressed in black with a wild look in his eyes. He looked slightly…no, more than slightly, mad.  
"Morion?" Khamul asked.  
"Fire…burning," the Witch-King gasped. He'd gone even more pale than when Khamul had last seen him. His eyes were hollow black holes, his fingers ivory twigs.   
"What's going on?" Khamul asked, looking around. Had someone cast a spell on him, or had Morion finally lost it?  
"The fire…oh Valar, the fire!"  
"There is no fire," Khamul snapped.   
Morion screamed and collapsed to the ground. Before Khamul's stunned eyes, burns appeared on his skin. His clothing smoldered and caught fire in several places.  
Cursing, Khamul seized a handful of dirt and smothered the flames. "What's happening?" she growled. Morgoth, she thought. He's behind this.  
Morion writhed on the ground, his body jerking and twitching. An invisible whip sliced through clothing and flesh. He was soon covered in blood, his clothes rags.   
"Snap out of it!" Khamul snarled. Her voice shook a little. She'd seen magic before, but this was just…frightening. Could it affect her as well, or only Morion?  
"Make it stop!" Morion moaned. His muscles tensed and a long gash appeared in his side.  
Khamul grabbed Morion by the shoulders and shook him. "Snap out of it!" she ordered. "There's no one here! You're crazy!" What should she do? If this continued, he might die. If he even could. Either way, this couldn't be allowed to continue.  
The second ringbearer was about to pick up the Witch-King when he seemed to seize up. His entire body went rigid.   
"Well, that makes for easier carrying," Khamul muttered. She bent down and picked Morion up. He felt strangely light. Far too light for his body, which was mostly muscle clinging to bones.  
Morion's back arched and his mouth opened wider than it should've been able to. Khamul was tempted to drop him and plug her ears. She knew what was coming.  
The scream nearly burst her eardrums. She had ringing in her ears for hours afterward.   
"It's not real!" Khamul yelled at him. "Nothing's happening! It's magic, plain and simple! Fight it! It's not real!"  
Morion's eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp as waterweed. Khamul cursed furiously as Morion's weight seemed to double.  
"What happened?" Yanta asked as Khamul staggered into Minas Morgul.  
"Thanks for the help," the Haradrim snapped. "Open the damn door at least."  
"What happened?" Yanta opened the door.  
"I don't know," Khamul snarled. "He had a fit or something."  
"Looks like he got beaten up pretty bad."  
"I think that was Morgoth."  
Yanta's eyes widened. "The Dark Vala? Here? Walking around?" She glanced fearfully into the shadows.  
"Don't be an idiot! He's not here! He's in Morion's mind!"  
"So how could he do all that?"  
"I don't know! Magic, probably."  
"What're you going to do with him?"  
"I don't know."  
"You don't know a lot of things."  
"Get out of here!"  
Yanta rolled her eyes, but wandered off down the hallway.  
Getting the door to Morion's bedroom open was a pain, but Khamul managed to kick the damn thing open after a while. Morion still hadn't woke up or even moved. Khamul wondered if he was dead.  
"I hope you're not dead," she muttered, dumping him on his bed. Morion lay where he fell. A quick check of his pulse proved that he was still among the living, if unconscious.  
What's wrong with him? Khamul wondered. The cuts and burns are healing already. He should be awake at least by now. So why isn't he?  
And what brought this on in the first place?  
As she watched Morion's wounds slowly start to close, Khamul pondered what little she knew of the Witch-King and the Dark Vala.  
First of all, Morgoth was a cruel, vindictive bastard. Morion was his hands in Arda. If Morion had disobeyed him, or screwed up something big, then Morgoth was liable to get extremely angry and punish his servant. Severely.  
"But what did Morion do?" Khamul muttered. As far as she knew nothing big had happened. Well, there was the thing with the goblin trying to kill Eorl on Morion's orders…oh… That was it.  
"Dammit!" Khamul could've punched herself. Morgoth wanted Eorl dead, not Morion, not Sauron. He wanted Eorl dead bad enough that he was punishing Morion for it when he failed.  
And this is all my fault, Khamul thought. She felt a twinge of guilt, but frowned and dismissed it. Why would Morgoth want Eorl dead? He's a tavern owner's son. A vicious, vindictive, warrior of a tavern owner's son, but he's still a tavern owner's son. He's never going to amount to much.  
Someone knocked on the door.  
"Come on in," Khamul snapped.  
"Oh, you're back," Aica said, poking her head in. She didn't sound overly pleased. "What's wrong with Morion?"  
"I don't know. What do you want?"  
"Cirion's alive. He's the steward of Gondor."  
"Why wouldn't he be alive?"  
Aica rolled her eyes. "The Balchoth – descendants of the Wainriders – have been terrorizing northern Gondor. Cirion rode out to meet them with the army of Gondor. They got decimated and would've all died except this guy called Eorl and a freaking enormous army slaughtered all the Balchoth."  
Khamul's head dropped into her hands.  
Aica smiled. "Bad news?" she asked.  
"Argh!"  
"Cirion also decided to give them a ton of land Gondor doesn't really need. They've already settled in. They're calling it the Riddermark."  
"Argh!"  
"They also swore an oath. It's called the Oath of Eorl, appropriately enough. Basically, if Gondor ever needs Rohan's help, they send an arrow to them and Eorl's people have to come. Pretty neat, huh?"  
"Argh!" Things could not possibly get worse. Okay, maybe if Morgoth took over Morion's body again things would be worse, but that was about it.   
"Does this interfere with your plans?" Aica asked.  
"Did you see all this in the palantir?" Khamul asked.  
"So what if I did?"  
"Have you been spying on me?"  
"…Maybe."  
"I knew it." The fuzzy feeling I'd get in my head. That was when Aica was spying on me through the palantir. I wonder how much she knows about the Halfling.  
"Why were you looking for that Halfling?"  
Or then again, maybe she doesn't. Khamul shrugged. "He stole one of my daggers. I wanted it back."  
Aica snorted. "A Halfling stole the great Khamul's dagger!"  
"Do you have anything else to say?"  
"No, not really. Do you have any idea what's wrong with Morion?"  
"No!"  
"Is it fatal?" Aica's face lit up like Minas Morgul's walls.  
"Go away," Khamul snarled.  
Aica walked out, the smile on her face so broad it was a wonder it didn't split her head open.  
"Stupid bitch," Khamul muttered. She glared at Morion. "Move, damn you!" she snarled. She shook Morion's shoulders again. He twitched this time. "That's better! Wake up!"  
Gradually, over the next hour, Morion twitched several more times, and finally opened his eyes.  
"Where am I?" he muttered.  
"Your bedroom," Khamul said.  
"What are you doing here?" Morion asked. "You're up in the north."  
"No, I'm here."  
"Apparently."  
"I was just coming home when who should I find staggering around outside the gates? You."  
Morion raised an eyebrow. "I was staggering around outside the gates?"  
"Yes, and talking about fire."  
Morion frowned, then realization dawned and his face went deathly pale. "Oh," he whispered. "Yes. The fire."  
"You had some kind of fit or something. What was that about?"  
"Ringe."  
Khamul's face was a mask of fury. "Ringe," she spat. "What about him?"  
"Eorl didn't die. Morgoth…oh Valar, Morgoth."  
Did Morgoth kill Ringe? This was an interesting development. "What happened?" Khamul asked.  
"Sauron told me to send him to Moria to talk with the balrog, but it was Morgoth. It was Morgoth all along."  
Khamul had a fairly good idea of what had happened after this. "So the balrog carved up Ringe and Morgoth let you feel it?" she guessed.  
Morion nodded. "He's alive though. I know it. He'll be coming home soon."  
"How nice for you," Khamul said, acid in every word.  
"Thank you for bringing me in," Morion said.   
"You were in my way."  
Morion smiled. "Still, thank you."  
Khamul shrugged. "My horse doesn't like trampling over people." She rose to leave.  
"When you were in the north, did you ever come across a man called Eorl?" Morion asked.  
"No."  
"Oh. I suppose it doesn't matter if he dies now. He's founded Rohan. That's all Morgoth wanted to prevent."  
"Why?"  
"I don't know. He's convinced it'll hurt his plans."  
Then it's a damn good thing I let Eorl live, Khamul thought. If it thwarts Morgoth's plans, then I'm all for it. Good for you, Eorl. Go forth and prosper.


	11. Blame

"I just keep running into people." Yanta chuckled and took a bite of an apple. Metima had tried cultivating them in Minas Morgul. The result wasn't actually poisonous, but it sure wasn't good.  
"Get out of my way," Ringe snarled.  
Yanta nearly choked. Ringe, aggressive? This was a thing unheard of! She wondered what had happened. Still, one never got aggressive with Yanta. Push, and she would just push back harder. "What's wrong with you?" she snarled.  
"I said get out of my way!"  
"Yeah? And if I don't?" Yanta growled. She chucked the half-eaten apple across the courtyard and drew her dagger.  
Ringe's eyes burned with fury and Yanta took a step back. "You're not worth my time," she said, sheathing her dagger and walking off.  
Not wasting anymore time, Ringe hurried into the main fortress and up to Morion's bedroom. He didn't bother to knock but barged straight in. The Witch-King was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.  
"Traitor!" he spat.  
"You're back," Morion said. "Are you all right?" He struggled to sit up but fell back on the bed.  
"Bastard!" Ringe stormed over to the bed and grabbed Morion by the collar of his shirt. "You sent me on a fool's errand! I didn't mind that! Why would I mind that? It was just for fourteen years!"  
"I didn't know. I thought Sauron –"  
"It wasn't Sauron!"  
"I know it wasn't Sauron," Morion said, his voice still quiet and calm. This enraged Ringe all the more. "It was Morgoth."  
"And you didn't bother to tell me?" Ringe hissed, his grip tightening.  
"I didn't know until it was too late," Morion said. "He told me that all would go well if Eorl was killed."  
"But this Eorl wasn't killed, was he?"  
"I sent the best," Morion said. "The best failed, apparently."  
"Apparently?!"  
"Morgoth does not keep his promises."  
"He does when they're about pain," Ringe snarled. "Do you know what his servant, the balrog, did to me?"  
"Yes, because he did it to me too!"  
"It's not the same! Every night Morgoth tortures you! Every night he burns you, cuts you! Every night he…he… And besides, you weren't there! You were burned, but you didn't feel the flames! You were cut, but you didn't see the sword! You didn't have to stare at the balrog's eyes! You didn't have to feel the fear!"  
"I'm sorry," Morion said. "Believe me, I am sorry."  
Ringe hit him across the face. "You could never be sorry enough!" he spat. "Aica was right. You're a heartless, manipulative bastard." He walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him.  
"Heartless, manipulative, bastard," Morion muttered, rubbing his cheek. "Maybe I am." But if he was heartless, then why was there a pain in his chest that came from no physical wound?   
*  
"Are you going to get up?" Khamul snapped the next day. "Vorea's got a report about the war. She thinks we might be able to take Osgiliath soon."  
"That sounds promising," Morion said.   
"Can you get up?"  
"I probably can. I couldn't yesterday."  
"Well, it's not yesterday anymore. It's today. So get up and look through the damn paperwork. No one else can do it."  
Morion smiled, but it faded quickly. "You need me then?"  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "We've always needed you," she said. The words spilled out before she had time to hold them back.  
Morion stood up. "Very well," he said. "If you need me, I'll be glad to help."  
"Did something happen with you and Ringe?"  
"Perhaps."  
Khamul bit her lip to keep from smiling. "Did you break up?" she asked a few moments later.  
Morion closed his eyes. "Yes," he said. "I don't think he'll ever be able to forgive me for this. I don't blame him."  
Khamul followed Morion to his office where she showed him the towering stack of paperwork. She left him to it, starting to head down to the training ground. She stopped in the middle of a hallway and looked around, making sure she was alone.  
"YES!"


	12. Until the Time Comes

The golden roof went up. The goblets clinked as the warriors, farmers, and horse-tamers congratulated each other. Through Dunlending raids, through famine, through strife, they had survived.  
"To Eorl the Young!" one man exclaimed, leaping to stand on the table. "Praise his memory! And let's have a song!"  
There was a roar of agreement to this. A bard sprang forward and began playing upon a slightly out of tune harp. No one minded. In fact, they sang along, for they all knew their great leader's life story by heart.  
Loudest among all the voices was Brego, son of Eorl. He was king of the Rohirrim now. King. Not chief, not headman, but king. It felt good to be king.  
It grew dark outside, the stars covered by a thick veil of clouds. The torches flickered and went out, leaving the guard around the newly-built Meduseld standing watch in utter darkness.  
The song finally died out as more and more of its participants passed out from too much drink. The wild laughter and roars gradually became calmer, and more and more fell asleep.   
"Father! Psst, Father!"  
"Nrgghh. What is it, Son?" Brego asked, stirring. He didn't open his eyes. "Go to sleep."  
"Father, the torches."  
"What about 'em?"  
"They've gone out."  
"That's too bad. Go to sleep."  
"Father…"  
"Oh, what is it?" Brego snapped, opening his eyes and peeling his face off the table. It was dark. All the lights seemed to have gone out. Every last one of them. Brego felt like he was standing in darkest night. A night before there had ever been light.  
"I think the door's open, Father."  
"Baldor…"  
"I can feel a draft."  
Brego was a brave man, a fierce warrior, but he was not about to stand up and walk, in this utter darkness, to shut Meduseld's door. Let the guards take care of that.  
"Go to sleep," Brego said.  
"There's someone here," Baldor whispered.  
That stirred Brego to action. He sat bolt upright, feeling the sensation himself. His hand went to his long dagger. "Wake up," he snarled, kicking those sitting around him.  
"What? What is it?" they muttered.  
"Torches are out, the door's open, and someone's in here!"  
Quickly and quietly, the Sons of Eorl seized their weapons and made ready to face whatever horror had come among them.  
Someone lit one of the torches, which shed light on a scene of spilled wine, toppled benches, snoring bodies, and general remnants of a night of merriment.  
"There's no one here," someone said.  
The man holding the torch waved it around a bit more, and there stood, in the center of the hall, an old man. He looked like he could've been either Rohirrim or Dunlending, or perhaps of Gondor. He was very old with wrinkled, parchment-like skin, and thin, white hair. He was dressed in rags and his eyes gleamed so brightly that he was probably mad.  
"Grandfather," Brego said, standing up. "We've got enough food for you, but you needn't sneak in. We're warriors. There's no telling what could've happened."  
The old man watched Brego with the bright, intense eyes, but didn't answer.  
"Grandfather?" another man asked. "Are you well?"  
No, he's not well, Brego thought. He's mad. He's completely and utterly mad. Can't you see that? It's obvious!  
"Grandfather?" Baldor asked. He took a step toward the man and Brego seized hold of his son's shoulder to keep him from going further.  
The old man's eyes went from face to face, settling briefly on Brego, and then longer on Baldor.  
When the old man spoke at last, it was like the rustling of the last leaf of autumn, like the rustle of the winding cloth as the dead is lowered into the grave, like the last gasp of the dying.   
"The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead. And the Dead keep it. Until the time comes. The way is shut."  
And then, before the confused warriors, the old man dropped to the floor.  
"He's dead," one of the men reported seconds later. "Not breathing."  
"What did that mean?" Brego muttered.  
"There are rumors of a path in these lands," one man said. "A path guarded by the living dead. Perhaps he spoke of that."  
Baldor snorted. "A path of the living dead? That's madness."  
"They say that no man can walk the path and live."  
"And likely no one's ever tried. I'll do it."  
"No," Brego hissed. "No! Be quiet, Son!"  
But nothing could stop Baldor. It was as if the old man's madness had passed out of his dead body and infected the son of the king.   
"I swear as I am grandson of Eorl the Young that I shall walk these so-called Paths of the Dead!" Baldor exclaimed.  
Brego closed his eyes. An oath was an oath. It was utterly binding. He felt grief begin to well. It was as if he'd already lost his son.


	13. King of the Misty Mountains

"Two kingdoms," Sauron muttered, pacing. "The bastard! Two kingdoms! Gondor in the south, Rohan in the north! The bastard! He does have foresight!"  
It was rare for the lord of Dol Guldur to lose his temper, and the orcs and other foul things of the stronghold kept well away when he did.  
"My lord?" a brave goblin asked, limping into the room. It was a hideously deformed thing, what with the limp and the ghastly hunchback.  
"What is it?" Sauron asked.  
"Lord Lungorthin, the balrog of Moria, sends his greetings."  
Sauron snorted. "I'll bet he does."  
"He wishes to inform you that while he will not be joining your army in Mordor, nor coming to Dol Guldur itself, he will guard Moria against intruders unfriendly to you."  
"That's what he's doing now!"  
"That is all he said, my lord." The goblin bowed.  
"You, what's your name?" Sauron asked. He felt strangely out of sorts today. It was Feanor. It had to be.  
"Grish, my lord."  
"In what capacity have you served me, Grish?"  
"I recently led three hundred orcs on wargs to slay Eorl, my lord."  
"Well, obviously, you failed."  
"I destroyed his village, my lord."  
Which incited him to violence and the aiding of Cirion. "On whose orders?" Sauron asked.   
"The Witch-King's, my lord."  
Sauron frowned. He saw Morgoth's hand in this. "Very well," he said. "Grish, I have need of a loyal goblin. A loyal goblin who doesn't mind heights, the cold, or sentient mountains."  
Grish smiled. "I am yours to command, my lord," he said.  
Good, no trying to weasel out of it. "Henceforth you are the High Goblin of the southern Misty Mountains. Your realm stretches from the Gladden River to Methedras. Guard it well."  
"I am deeply honored, my lord." Grish looked up expectantly. No gift so great came without a great, great price.  
"I take it you came straight from Moria?"  
"Yes, my lord. I spoke with Lord Lungorthin himself."  
Sauron nodded. "What happened to the other orcs?"  
"Lord Lungorthin was…hungry."  
"And the wargs?"  
"They went free for the most part, my lord."  
Lovely. Wargs roaming freely across the land. "Did you, perchance, see the three great mountains of Moria?" Sauron asked.  
"Yes, my lord," Grish said. "Do you wish for me to make my home in one of them?"  
"That won't be necessary, although you will need some tunnels in them. You shouldn't have to build many as they are riddled with tunnels from the dwarves. Just make sure you are able to reach all parts of Caradhras very quickly."  
"Caradhras…Redhorn. Yes, my lord, I am familiar with that one."  
"Good," Sauron said. You're not the only with foresight, he thought bitterly at Feanor. "Make your home where you like, the further from Caradhras, the better. Perhaps in Methedras or near it."  
"An excellent suggestion, my lord. Will the goblins obey me?"  
"They will," Sauron said. He walked over to Grish and lay the tip of his first finger on the goblin's greasy green flesh. Grish started and when Sauron lowered his hand, there was a burn in the shape of an eye on the goblin's forehead. "That will make them listen to you," he said.  
"I thank you, lord," Grish whispered. He resisted the temptation to touch the brand.  
"Make your home, watch who comes and goes on Caradhras," Sauron said.   
"You spoke of sentient mountains, lord. Is Caradhras…?"  
"Yes. It will no doubt regale you with tales of your high and mighty destiny. Ignore it. And do not touch anything near the Redhorn Gate."  
"The rocks, my lord? The snow? What?"  
"You will know what it is," Sauron said. "Do not touch anything. You must not incur the mountain's wrath."  
Grish frowned. "Is there something you want me to do there, my lord?"  
"In time, Grish, in time," Sauron said.   
"When will this time be, my lord?"  
"You will know it when you see it."  
Statements exactly like that made Grish very, very nervous. "Will the mountain tell me, my lord?" he asked.  
"You know, it actually might. It is quite concerned with getting this part of its plans right. So concerned, in fact, that it actually took the time to give me the idea of sending a goblin to govern the Misty Mountains."  
What was this destiny? Grish wondered. More importantly, how would it affect Grish? Was it a destiny that ended with him as king with lots of wealth and wine, or would it end with his head on a pike?  
"I suspect you will enjoy your time as king," Sauron said. There was something in his eye that Grish didn't like in the least. "I suspect you will enjoy it quite a bit."  
*  
Miles away, at the foot of the western Redhorn Gate, nine shrines stood. The tenth had collapsed recently, crumbling as though struck with a crushing blow. A band of humans crossing the pass didn't notice the shrines. They noticed the voice on the wind though. It made no move to stop them, was not threatening, but it was still there. A living voice of the mountain.  
"Nine more," the voice whispered. "Nine more shrines. The time is coming for the Ring, the Crown, and the Tree!"


	14. Discussion of the Wise

The autumn sun made the red-gold trees all the brighter, and cast its soft light on a young boy and his father, sitting amongst the leaves, talking and laughing.  
Watching it all was a tall elf lord and an old man dressed in gray.  
"You seem troubled, Master Elrond," Gandalf said.   
"And why wouldn't I be?" Elrond asked. "The evil in Dol Guldur has returned, the Watchful Peace is at an end, darkness stirs in every corner of the land. It will not be long now."  
Gandalf nodded. "Sauron will return, if he has not already."  
"You think he is the power in Dol Guldur. I do not doubt you, but I find it hard to believe."  
"I believe it with every fiber of my being. You are wise, Master Elrond, but you have not been in the uncloaked presence of a Maia. The power that emanates from Mirkwood is not the twisted, warped power of a Man, but the strength of a being that saw the very beginning of this world."  
"You speak the truth, I know," Elrond said. "I simply do not want to admit it. None in the Council of the Wise do. The evidence is there, before our eyes, but we deny it out of fear when the wisest course would be to make preparations."  
"I will speak with Saruman," Gandalf said. "He will see reason."  
"I do not know if any of us can see reason where Sauron is concerned. He is a threat of the Second Age, they say. His power is naught without the Ring."  
"And speaking of the Ring, it has not been destroyed, has it?"  
Elrond's eyes flashed with fury and he cast a vicious glare at the man and his son. "No."  
"Do not blame them for their ancestor's faults," Gandalf said quietly but sternly. "Isildur fell prey to a power that can seduce all but the strongest. Perhaps his descendants shall make amends for his folly."  
"They are nothing," Elrond said. "The blood of Numenor – of my brother – runs so thin I cannot see it in them. They are more akin to the Northmen, perhaps even the Dunlendings, than those of Gondor. Chieftains of the Dunedain? Ha! They are not worthy of such a title."  
Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow at the diatribe. "Has news come to you?" he asked. "Something I have not heard?"  
"There is little you have not heard. You know of Brego of Rohan, yes?"  
"An unfortunate man."  
"Not as unfortunate as his son. He walked into the Paths of the Dead. Naturally, he did not return."  
Gandalf bowed his head. "Unfortunate men," he said.   
"Brego died soon after. What prompted this idiocy was apparently a mad old man appearing amidst the feast celebrating the completion of their hall," Elrond sneered the word. No construction of Men could even come close to rivaling that of the elves. "Do you know what he said, Gandalf?"  
"No."  
"The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead. And the Dead keep it. Until the time comes. The way is shut."  
"A prophecy," Gandalf said.   
"Like the one Malbeth made nearly a thousand years ago. The Paths await the Heir of Isildur."  
Both men looked at the Chieftain of the Dunedain and his son.  
"It's not either one of them," Elrond said. "Aravorn concerns himself with nothing beyond his borders."  
"Borders that need his complete concentration and focus."  
"His son looks no better," Elrond said.  
Gandalf examined his friend closely. Never had he known Elrond to be anything less than polite about the Chieftains. Had something happened?  
Elrond heaved a sigh. "When he was younger, I often caught Aravorn and my daughter speaking with one another. I…Gandalf, you cannot imagine how such a thing affects me. My own great-grandmother was Luthien Tinuviel herself. She chose to wed a Man and forsake her immortality! Never more will the beauty of Luthien grace the world! And what do they name my daughter? Undomiel! Evenstar! They claim she is the image of Luthien!"  
"She does not need to share her fate," Gandalf said.  
Elrond shook his head. "They say she is Luthien reincarnated," he whispered.  
"Only slain elves may be reincarnated," Gandalf said. "She is her own person."  
"You do not know that. She could be Luthien of the Third Age. And where is her Beren? Perhaps he is Aravorn. Perhaps he is Arahad the second. Perhaps he is a Chieftain yet to come!"  
"She will make a choice that is pleasing to her," Gandalf said. "As all your people have done. And if she is pleased with it, what more could you hope for?"  
"A man who will not steal her life's grace!" Elrond shouted. Aravorn and Arahad glanced up, but then Arahad stood and wandered into the trees and his father followed him.  
"Calm yourself, Master Elrond," Gandalf said. "Your daughter is perfectly safe. And even if she were to follow in Luthien's footsteps, what would be the harm? She is the most renowned elf in all history. None share her high honor."  
"But she is dead," Elrond said quietly, brokenly. "She is dead, Gandalf. I cannot let that happen to my daughter."  
"The future is dark," Gandalf said. "What lies ahead is veiled to me."  
"Not so veiled," Elrond said. "I have heard whispers of prophecies…" His face twisted with anguish. "Arwen…" he whispered. "I cannot lose her. I do not care if her suitor, her Beren, succeeds at whatever task – whatever Silmaril I send him to find. I do not care if he reunites the kingdoms! I do not care who or what he is. He will not have my daughter!"  
Gandalf studiously ignored the latter half of Elrond's words and focused his attention on the earlier part. "Prophecies?" he asked. "Of what sort."  
"They say you have been making prophecies, as has the Necromancer."  
"Who is 'they'?"  
Elrond waved a hand. "Saruman, Galadriel, other lords of great power."  
"I have made no prophecies."  
"You told a Nazgul she had a high destiny!"  
"Ah," Gandalf said, remembering this. "Yes, I did."  
"What did you mean by that?"  
"You mentioned that there were two making prophecies? Myself and the Necromancer?"  
"Yes."  
"There is a third, from whom I wager both of us have been getting our information."  
Elrond frowned. "A third? Who? Galadriel? Another Istari? Who?"  
"You have heard what the dwarves say of Caradhras? That it is sentient? That it speaks, that it acts, that it strikes at those it takes offense to?"  
"According to them, that's quite a lot," Elrond said with a snort. "What does it have to do with anything?"  
"I spoke with the mountain," Gandalf said. "You will have noticed, Master Elrond, that foresight is of no more use anymore. The paths are veiled by the malice of Mordor. Yes, Mordor. Sauron will return there soon."  
"And yet you can claim to see some future. Or is it the mountain that sees it for you?"  
"Caradhras is the last in Arda who can see the path. What path it is and what it leads to, I do not know. The mountain works for itself only. Not for Gondor, Mordor, Dol Guldur, Imladris, Lorien, nor lost Arnor. Wherever this path leads, it will benefit Caradhras first and foremost. Yet I feel that it will benefit us as well. I have felt the hand of Manwe in this."  
"The Vala has spoken to you?" Elrond gasped.  
"No, but I feel his will. Caradhras is trying to manipulate fate, but that it is difficult to do when you are bound in stone."  
"So it has chosen you and the Necromancer as its envoys. What did it tell you?"  
"That the Black Easterling – a rather intelligent Haradrim woman, actually – has a high destiny. It did not specify as to what exactly. Though I think it may have already come to pass." Gandalf chuckled.  
"What do you mean?"  
"She spared the life of Eorl the Young. That is a decision all the foes of evil can cheer for."  
"He is nothing but a Man," Elrond said. "He and all his kind. Men have done nothing to this world but cause havoc in it. Turin brought about the ruin of Nargothrond, Numenor became proud and corrupt, and Isildur failed to destroy the Ring!"  
"Yet Turin slew Glaurung, Numenor's descendants drove off Sauron, and Isildur has left behind heirs to aid Arda as they may."  
"And what of my people?" Elrond asked. "It was Gil-galad with Elendil who defeated Sauron. It was Finrod who aided Beren; without him, the Man would never have survived. Long have my people have been the guardians of knowledge, storehouses of forgotten lore and power."  
"You claim them as your people then," Gandalf said. "No thought for Earendil?"  
"There will never be another like him," Elrond said. "Besides, I claimed the Eldar as my people just as Elros chose Men."  
"The bitterness in your voice suggests you cannot understand him."  
"I cannot! Why would he choose to live among them? They have brief moments of valor, courage, strength. But they are so weak! There is a reason the Nazgul are Men: they are weak."  
Gandalf could sense a losing argument and he had no desire to continue to provoke Elrond, perhaps even lose his friendship, a friendship that the Istari highly valued.   
"Bear with the Heirs of Isildur a while longer," the Grey Wizard said. "Perhaps Caradhras has a fate for them."  
"Only if it involves the bottom of a ravine," Elrond muttered under his breath.


	15. Coming of the Dragon

A rumble shook the mountain. Boulders were knocked aside as mere inconveniences. Huge leathery wings unfurled as a brisk breeze blew through the tunnel. A scaly snout emerged into blinding eastern light.  
Smaug snorted and a curl of smoke rose from a nostril. "There is very little to look at here," he grumbled, gazing this way and that across the barren wasteland. He strained to remember what the strange little human had told him. Go west. There are dwarves in the west. And where there were dwarves, there was gold.   
Smaug licked his lips at the thought of gold. And dwarves. Dwarves were quite tasty. Though gold made a better bed. But what good was a bed without a full stomach?   
He stretched his wings to their full extent and tested the air. It had been so many long centuries since he'd taken to the sky. Not since the wars of Morgoth had he flown, and that was only to fly away. He'd fled to this small, pathetic mountain where he lay, hidden from the Valar's wrath. But in the cramped quarters of the cave, he had stopped growing. He would be dwarfed now by younger cousins. Provided he wasn't the last of his kind.  
The thought of extinction didn't worry Smaug. Unless, of course, it included himself. He didn't think much of other dragons and never had.   
Inhaling a deep breath of the air, Smaug frowned, as much as a dragon could. There was nothing in the wind but dust and dirt. The land of the dwarves must be far off indeed. Unless the human was lying.  
A low growl issued from Smaug's throat as he ran across the ground, his claws digging deep rents into the earth. With a powerful leap he took to the sky, wobbling slightly as he struggled to remember how to fly.  
How sad. A dragon that did not remember how to fly.  
Smaug stabilized himself within a few minutes. Some things were impossible to forget.   
He flew west, following the human's directions. He wondered briefly what had happened to the human. Died, obviously. They all died. But she was strange. She smelled very odd. Very…old. Too old for a human. And too human for an elf.  
Perhaps it was a new breed. Perhaps humans had achieved immortality.  
Just as long as dwarves weren't fireproof and coated in steel, Smaug had no problem with the new developments of the world.  
Days passed and Smaug's stomach gnawed with hunger. There was nothing to eat out here, and flying exhausted him. He felt weak and tired. All he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep for several more centuries.  
Gold! he reminded himself. Gold! There is gold, and where there is gold, there are dwarves! A bed and a snack!  
It was nearly a month since Smaug set out from his cave, but at last he saw hills in the distance. He flew faster, mouth salivating. These hills were abandoned though. He could smell it even from this distance.   
"Damn the human!" Smaug snarled. She had lied to him! If she still lived, Smaug would find her, would make her pay.  
But on the horizon there was an edge of green. A forest. Perhaps there was more to this land than empty hills.  
Smaug flew toward the forest. He never reached it.  
Standing alone amidst the flat lands, near a great lake, was a mountain. A single high peak of stone. Smoke issued from it and for a moment Smaug wondered if it was inhabited by a dragon.  
No. He recognized the smell.  
Dwarves.  
There was a settlement by the lake, but what did that matter? They were mere humans; they could not hurt a dragon.  
Smaug descended with an ear-splitting roar. His wings pinned across his back, he plummeted like a rock, jaws open, teeth flashing. He was flying death.  
Some noticed the noise, but none saw him. It was dark, and humans never saw well in the dark.  
The flames were the first indication that something was wrong. The screams started up soon afterward. Then the bells. Smaug had always hated bells. He made sure to decimate the belltowers quickly.  
Smaug wrought destruction in the small town, battering and incinerating anything that moved. No one had dared to stand against him. They fled at his approach, running shrieking to whatever safety they thought they could find.  
And now that the troublesome humans were taken care of, Smaug could turn his attention to the more important matter of the dwarves.  
He took to the air once more, having briefly reveled in stomping through the ruined town. Like an arrow he flew at the mountain. There were plenty of dwarves outside of it, watching the burning of the human village with mutters and concern.  
The fools! Did they not know that Smaug the Golden was upon them? Smaug the descendant of mighty Glaurung himself!  
Most of the dwarves were burned alive as Smaug set them alight. Almost half a dozen others were scooped up with a snap of his jaws. The crunchings made him feel warm inside, and the blood trickling down his neck was like an elixir of life.  
He roared again, and now the dwarves truly knew a dragon was upon them.   
Smaug attacked viciously, ferociously, battering down dwarven resistance wherever it was found. He shattered the front gate and stormed the mountain itself, breathing great clouds of flame down the halls, killing all in his path.   
And then, suddenly, the mountain was empty.  
Smaug searched up and down the mountain, peering into every room, sniffing at every crack, but there was not a single dwarf to be found.  
Chuckling and congratulating himself, Smaug set about picking up every piece of the treasure he found in storerooms and massing it together in the former dining hall. It was quite a mound of treasure, and he particularly liked a large golden goblet and a bright white stone.   
As he was just about to settle in for a nice, long nap, Smaug decided to go back to the ruined human village and see if they had anything valuable. He returned with a much fuller stomach – though humans didn't taste as good as dwarves – a small mound of coins, and a very nice emerald necklace.  
He rolled a boulder in front of the gate. He couldn't take the chance that some adventuring fool might try to kill him. They might even succeed in injuring him while he lay in slumber.   
Smaug wriggled on his treasure, trying to get comfortable. At last he breathed a contented sigh and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and as he slept, smoke drifted in lazy strands from his snout. The mountain still smoked, but not from the smithies of the dwarves.  
Far away, near the border of Mirkwood, a middle-aged dwarf patted his young son's shoulder.  
"We of Durin's folk seem to be driven from our every home by foul beasts," Thrain said. "It was Durin's Bane in Moria, and now it is a dragon here in the Lonely Mountain."  
"I will not let that beast get away with this!" Thorin snarled, his fists clenched. "I will not!"  
"Our people are not as strong as they once were. Besides, the world does not care for the troubles of the dwarves. They are far more concerned with their own petty conflicts."  
"They will listen to me! I will make them help me take back our kingdom!"  
Thrain chuckled softly. "Well, perhaps. In the meantime, we shall go to the Blue Mountains. There are riches to be made there."  
As the few surviving dwarves turned toward the west, Thorin lingered, watching his home. Former home, he amended. The dragon was King Under the Mountain now. But for how long? Not long at all if Thorin had his way.


	16. Invasion of Corsairs

"I'm going to be sick."  
"I fail to see how that is possible. You haven't eaten anything in days."  
Khamul groaned and leaned over the side of the ship. "I hate sailing," she muttered.  
"You enjoyed it when we sailed to Numenor," Vorea said.  
"I was young and foolish then. Why can't we ride?"  
Vorea sighed. "Would they ride as well?" She gestured to the fleet around them. Corsairs of Umbar sailed against their most hated foe. They were out for blood, but Khamul didn't think they'd be getting a whole lot. Rohan would come to Gondor's aid. And the fierce and wild descendants of Eorl would deal swiftly with the Corsairs.  
"It was wise of Morion to organize this attack so soon after the Long Winter," Vorea commented. "The Dunlendings and Easterlings in the north have forged an alliance out of desperation."  
"So?"  
"So they have banded together against a common enemy: Rohan."  
Khamul glanced up. "They won't come?" she asked.  
Vorea shook her head. "They cannot. To do so would be to abandon their kingdom to destruction."  
Khamul smiled. "That's good for us. So Gondor's weakened from the Winter, and they don't have any allies. That should make them an easy target."  
"Our goal is to weaken them further," Vorea said. She gestured to the Corsairs. "They will all perish."  
Khamul nodded. Of course they would. Corsairs were expandable fodder to throw against the gates of Minas Tirith. Wouldn't they catch on one of these days?  
"Land!" the lookout screamed. Echoing shouts from other ships confirmed his sighting.   
"Pelargir," the Corsair captain growled, walking over to the bow where Vorea and Khamul stood. "We'll be making landfall soon."  
"Can't you take it up the Anduin?" Khamul asked.  
"If I wanted to die," the captain snorted. "You've got to wipe the land of defenders before you move on. I shouldn't've expected a woman to know any better."  
Khamul growled and she started to draw her sword.   
"My friend has not commanded a battle in a long time," Vorea said, seizing Khamul's wrist.   
The captain rolled his eyes. "A long time," he sneered. He paled then, for he had momentarily forgotten what the women were. "Yes, of course," he muttered. "Of course…"  
"Why are we letting the Corsairs attack Gondor?" Khamul hissed. "They'll screw it up! Just like the damn Easterlings!"  
"The Haradrim did little better."  
"They didn't get drunk and get slaughtered while they were still half-awake!"  
"I am sure they fought valiantly, but southern Gondor is not our target."  
"So what is?" Khamul asked.  
"There is a large shipping yard in Pelargir," Vorea said. "If we burn it, it will cripple Gondor."  
"Destroying Minas Tirith would also cripple Gondor."  
"It is impossible to destroy Minas Tirith with our limited resources."  
"So we're just going to let them live forever?"  
"The time has not yet come," Vorea said. "When Lord Sauron returns to Mordor and gathers his minions to him, then the time will be ripe to raze the Tower of Guard."  
Khamul heaved a sigh and watched the land approach. Alarm bells started ringing out as they neared shore. The Corsairs readied ballista arrows and set them on fire. The result was that by the time they landed, most of the town was in flames.  
The men of Umbar leaped off their ships, screaming and waving cutlasses and daggers. They cut through anyone in their path, making straight for the shipping yard.  
"Get the guards!" the ships' captains screamed. "The guards, you damn fools!"  
Khamul cursed and jumped off the ship. Soldiers of Gondor were hurrying out of buildings to protect what little remained of the town and its populace.  
The Haradrim was almost hit by a young man with a longsword, but he was suddenly impaled on a metal spear.  
"Good to see you aren't averse to a fight," Khamul said with a grin as Vorea pulled her spear out of the soldier.  
"When have I ever been?" Vorea asked.  
"Just good to know you haven't lost your touch."  
It didn't take long for the town to be in flames, the residents to be dead, and the shipyard to be nothing more than charred sticks.  
"That should keep Gondor from the seas for a good long time," one of the captains said with a smile.   
"And now we go up the Anduin?" Khamul asked.  
The captain shrugged. "I suppose so. Seems a bit dangerous though."  
"You're Corsairs!"  
"Gondor has a large army. They're weakened, but we can't take on the whole damn country."  
"Might I suggest something?" Vorea asked.  
"Sure," the captain said. "You're reasonable."  
"Gondor knows better than to leave valuables near the outskirts of its realm, including the coast. If we were to sail up the river, deeper into Gondor's territory, we would encounter wealthier and wealthier towns."  
The captain considered this. At last he nodded. "I reckon you're right," he said. "They've got a big army though. Big damn army."  
"The Long Winter greatly injured them, and do not expect aid to come from Rohan. The Horse Lords are fighting for their lives against the Dunlendings. I have heard that they have even been driven from their capital."  
The Corsair chuckled. "Now ain't that a shame? Ah, well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to go a little farther."  
"Do you have something in mind?" Khamul whispered to Vorea as the captain shouted orders.  
"I do not like sending men to certain death, but I make an exception in the case of these foul Corsairs," Vorea replied. "Liken the situation to that of two people with a large bomb. We are the people, the Corsairs are the bomb. We must explode this bomb where it will hurt the most. The bomb will, of course, be destroyed in the process."  
"You mean bring the Corsairs upriver to Gondor's centers of commerce and let them loose?"  
Vorea nodded. "Exactly. Gondor will eventually crush them, but by then Rohan will surely have fallen."  
"If Yanta's doing her job right. Which I seriously doubt."  
"We have control over very little. We can only make sure that our part goes well."  
And watch as everyone else screws up, Khamul thought.


	17. Night Wanderer

Yanta shivered and drew her cloak tighter around her. It was lined with fur, and she was protected by the ring, but still the winter was bitter. The wind had a bite to it, and the snow seemed colder than was normal. It was like being in Forodwaith again, only in her home country.  
The Dunlendings grumbled and huddled closer to the small fires that flickered and threatened to go out. They had gathered dead wood and dried it, but nothing large would burn. It was as if the land itself wanted them to die.  
Everything had been going so perfectly. With Ringe's rejection, Morion had regained his military brilliance and set about organizing attacks on the great powers in the world. Vorea and Khamul had been sent to rally the Corsairs, Aica and Ringe went to the north, and here was Yanta in her own land. Not that she'd ever seen much of the countryside. They hadn't been called the Men of the Mountains for nothing.  
Under her command, the Dunlendings had successfully been roused for vengeance for some king or another whom the Rohan king had slain. The Horse Lords' capital, Edoras, had been taken and now was under Dunlending command. Everything had been going so well…  
The king had escaped. No problem. Yanta gathered the army and set after him. They tracked him to a fortress in the mountains. The Hornburg, it was called, and it looked to Yanta damn near impregnable. Still, no problem. They could wait it out.   
The low bellow of a horn call rang out across the land. The Dunlendings began jabbering to one another and pointing in terror at the shadow of the enormous fortress in the dim light. All the men in the area gathered around the fires, staring with horror into the shadows as if waiting for some wraith to leap out and seize them.  
Everything had been going so well, but the former Northmen had the fighting spirit of wolves. Their king – Helm Hammerhand – refused to starve to death inside his keep, and neither would he surrender. Instead, the bastard stalked Dunlending soldiers in the dead of night, clad all in white, slaying them with his bare hands. It was either that or a wraith, and Yanta didn't think she was sleepwalking.  
Every night before he departed the Hornburg to begin his raid, Helm would blow the great horn, warning the Dunlendings. It should've warned them, told them to prepare for battle with a single enemy. But so great was the terror Helm inspired that his enemies cowered around the fires, shivering in petrified horror, waiting for the white wraith to appear and rend them into pieces.  
Yanta had had enough of this. Casting a glare of pure loathing at the pathetic Dunlendings, she marched out into the dark. What did she have to fear from some half-starved man?  
He was out here somewhere. Perhaps he was even stalking her. Well, if he was, he was in for a nasty surprise.  
Yanta drew her dagger and looked into the shadows of the forest. Nothing moved, and then a snowflake drifted down to add itself to the already considerable amount on the ground. And then another, and then another.  
The flurries quickly turned into a full-fledged blizzard, and Yanta curled up at the base of a large tree rather than freeze out in the open plains. Could she freeze? She wasn't sure, and she definitely didn't want to find out.  
Yanta awoke to a pale, gray dawn the next morning. She was covered in snow, which she shook off. Her limbs were stiff and cold as ice. If she could have died, she certainly would've in the blizzard.   
The whole world was wrapped in a thick blanket of white crusted with ice. Yanta couldn't remember the way she'd come, but she could see the Hornburg in the distance.   
The snow came up to her hips in some places. It made for slow going, trudging through the snow and breaking through the ice, which was up to several inches thick.  
At last the flickering lights of Dunlending fires could be seen and Yanta breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't caught Helm, but neither had he slaughtered all her men.  
She was almost halfway to the camp when she noticed a strange tree nearby. It wasn't as tall as most of the others, and it seemed both white and blue. The white was snow…most of it. Still, blue was a strange color for a tree.  
Walking over to investigate, Yanta stopped several feet from the…the…it wasn't a tree. It was a man.  
He was in his middle years, with dark yellow hair and a thick beard. He was dressed all in white, which was coated in snow along with ice. His eyes were still open and they glared out furiously at the world. His knees were unbent.  
Dressed all in white…  
Helm Hammerhand.  
Yanta threw back her head and laughed.


	18. Golfimbul

"You stupid goblins!" Aica screamed. "Can't you do anything right?"  
The goblins shifted from foot to foot, looking sheepish. "Isn't he the right one?" one daring one asked.  
Aica cursed, jumped off her horse, and walked over to the goblin who had spoken. In one swift motion, she drew her sword and cut off its head.  
"No!" she yelled. "He's not the right one!"  
"They don't know any better," Ringe said.  
"Stop defending them, you idiot!" Aica shouted. Her hand twitched and she wanted to slap Ringe across the face, but that would just make him think twice about coming back to her. He was hers again, not the Witch-King's. Hers. All hers. And Aica was never going to let him go again.  
"You told them to kill a man with an emerald ring and a six-pointed star pin. This man has the pin –"  
"Like all Dunedain!"  
"But he also has an emerald ring."  
Aica glared down at the mutilated corpse. A ring set with an emerald sparkled on its finger. "I guess you're right," she growled, loath to admit her mistake.   
"And he's not the Heir? Are you sure?" Ringe asked.  
"Yes! Of course I'm sure, dammit!" Ringe was doing a lot more doubting since his return. He needed to be beaten back into submission, but Aica wasn't sure how to do it without losing him again.  
"How are you sure?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"How do you know? Can you be positive?"  
Aica heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. "Look at the ring. It's just a plain emerald. The Heir's ring is two snakes devouring each other. One of them's got a crown of golden flowers."  
"You didn't tell us that," a goblin muttered, but quickly ducked into the crowd to avoid Aica's livid gaze.  
"Well, I'm telling you now!" she shouted. "So go find him and bring his head – and his ring! – to me!"  
"Yes, Shrieker," the goblins mumbled, and headed off into the snow.  
"How did you know about the ring?" Ringe asked once they were alone.  
"It's common knowledge," Aica said with a wave of her hand.  
"No, it's not. I didn't know it."  
"You're an idiot."  
"You know so many things, Aica, but I've never seen you talking to a single spy. Are you using magic?"  
A shiver ran down Aica's spine. Did her brother suspect her? If he was smarter, would he have already figured out that she was using a palantir? The only reason Morion hadn't was that he was too busy planning the war.   
"Don't be an idiot," Aica snapped. "I'm just smarter than you."  
Ringe sighed. "So why haven't we conquered Eriador yet?" he asked.  
"Because of the damn Rangers! The Dunedain!"  
"And you think that killing their chief will work?"  
"I know it will! Watch me!"  
Ringe rolled his eyes.  
"Captain," an orc growled as he ran up. "I've come to report that one of our parties has made it through into the Shire."  
"Excellent," Aica said with a smile. "How many are in it?"  
"Several hundred, Captain."  
Aica's smiled widened. "Lead us to them." She could find out where the orcs were herself by using the palantir, but she'd be damned if she let Ringe learn about it.  
*  
"The little Men call this the Northfarthing," the orc growled as he led Aica and Ringe through the pleasant land. It was pleasant. Even under all this snow, the trees were shapely, the land wasn't rugged or steep, and the rivers were slow and shallow.  
"And where is…" Aica couldn't remember the orc leader's name.  
"Golfimbul," the orc said. "The great chief should be around here somewhere," he muttered.  
Aica scowled. "Is that smoke?" she asked, pointing toward black wisps drifting up into the sky.  
The orc brightened. "No doubt Golfimbul has killed the small humans and burned their cities."  
Aica's scowl only deepened as they approached the hill. She had looked across this land many times in the palantir during this campaign and she was yet to find a single building for many leagues in this particular area.  
"Urhhh…" the orc muttered when they reached the crest of the hill and looked down.  
There was a large bonfire, in which burned the bodies of hundreds of orcs. Mounted on a pike nearby was a large orc's head.  
"Is that Golfimbul?" Aica asked, pointing at the head.  
"Er…" the orc muttered.  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
Ringe frowned. "Did the Dunedian do this?"  
"Don't be a fool!" Aica thundered. "They're all busy with the rest of the orcs! This is the work of the Halflings!"  
"The little folk couldn't do this," the orc protested.  
Aica turned a baleful eye on him. "You were one of Golfimbul's people, weren't you?" she hissed.  
"Er…yes?"  
"I don't think anyone survived."  
"What?"  
The orc's head fell from his shoulders seconds later. "Another one for the fire," Aica said. "Drag him there, Ringe."  
She was pleased to note that Ringe didn't dispute her orders, instead hauling the orc's head and body into the pyre.


	19. The Report

"Things did not go well, I gather?" Morion asked, looking up at the five faces. They shared a common quality among them: a slight or pronounced guilty look. "Khamul, Vorea, you start." He nodded at them. They looked least guilty.  
"We burned Gondor's main shipyard in Pelargir," Khamul said. "Then we traveled up the Anduin, burning and pillaging. We almost made it to Minas Tirith."  
"And then what happened?"  
"Gondor got its act together and wiped the Corsairs out."  
Morion nodded. "I expected as much. At least Gondor is greatly weakened."  
Khamul and Vorea exchanged a glance.  
"It's not?" Morion gasped. "You burned its shipyard!"  
"They're already rebuilding it," Khamul said. "They're making a very, very speedy recovery."  
Morion sighed. "Yanta?" he asked.  
"The Dunlendings had taken over this place called Isengard. From there, I led them on an attack on Edoras, which we took. The king and his sons escaped to the Hornburg, a very strong fortress. The king went a bit mad and would wander around at night, killing Dunlendings. Eventually he froze to death. His sons died as well."  
Morion nodded. This was good. Far too good for the expression on Yanta's face. "What happened?" he asked.  
"The Dunlendings all got slaughtered by the king's nephew and a bunch of Rohirrim."  
"I see."  
"They retook Edoras and are in the process of driving the Dunlendings out of Rohan completely. They're doing a very thorough job of it as well."  
"You two?" Morion asked, dreading to know how Aica and Ringe could destroy a plan as good as leading a bunch of blood-hungry, half-crazed orcs on a raid across Eriador.  
"Everything was going great," Aica said. "Lots of the Dunedain are dead from the orcs."  
"Not the Heir though?"  
"No, not him. Probably not anyway."  
It had been too much to hope for that the Heir of Isildur had be killed. "Why is Eriador not destroyed?" Morion asked.  
Aica took a deep breath. "The Dunedain killed them, and then the…" She hesitated.  
"The what?" Morion growled.  
"The Halflings killed their leader."  
"Halflings."  
"Yes."  
"Halflings. The little short things?"  
"Yes."  
"The short, fat, peace-and-flower-loving things?"  
"That's them," Aica said through gritted teeth.  
"They killed an orc chieftain?"  
"Yes."  
Morion sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Gondor has been dealt a blow, but it is recovering at phenomenal speed. Rohan has solidified its claim on its land and is wiping the scourge of the Dunlendings from its kingdom. And Eriador is just fine, sans a few Dunedain. It seems like we've accomplished nothing at all."  
"Morion?"  
The Witch-King glanced up as Ancalime poked her head in. "What is it?" he asked.  
"Are you busy? It's just that Ceure sent a message from Minas Tirith."  
"What is it? Are they preparing to march on Minas Morgul, perhaps? Have the Valar descended from Eldamar to join them?"  
"Oh…no, I don't think so. Maybe though. I'll have to read her letter again."  
Morion sighed. "Give it to me," he said.   
Ancalime walked in and handed him the letter. "It looked very important," she said. "I didn't really understand it though."  
Morion glanced at the paper, then leaned forward and read through it again. His grip on the parchment tightened as he read it a third time.  
What is it? Khamul thought. The last thing we need is bad news.   
Morion set down the letter. "Well, you managed to accomplish something lasting, Yanta," he said.  
"What? What's happening?" Yanta asked, looking very worried.  
"The steward of Gondor has decided – upon the insistence of the Rohirrim – that Isengard, being the place where the Dunlendings launched their attack from, is too dangerous to be left unguarded."  
"So?"  
"So they're putting in a wizard."


	20. Nan Curunir

The filthy Dunlendings had left a mess behind when they had gone off to war, and their deaths. The vile houses could be burned though, and all other traces of the Men would vanish with age. There would be no more need of houses and buildings around the great locked tower of Orthanc.  
For a new master had come. A master with the keys to the tower given to him by the steward of Gondor himself.  
Saruman smiled and spun the keys. One to Orthanc, and the rest were to the various locked rooms and chambers within. It would take nearly a man's lifetime to look through it all, but Saruman had already lived hundreds of such lifetimes.  
He shut the door of Orthanc behind him, shutting out the ugly ruins of Isengard. He would need to rebuild it, but where could he get the men?  
They need not necessarily be Men though.  
No, no, Saurman reminded himself. It was not time yet. The time was drawing closer, but it had not yet arrived. He couldn't compromise his position by using goblins and orcs for his work. Not yet.  
A thick layer of dust covered everything in the tower. Saruman frowned and coughed as great clouds of it sprang up at his every footstep. The stewards had forgotten Orthanc and left it to rot. That suited Saruman just fine.  
He ascended a flight of stairs, walking until he thought he would collapse. How terrible for a Maia such as he to be trapped in this frail body!   
At last he reached his destination. Opening the door with another one of the keys, Saruman walked into a large round room. In the center was a pedestal, upon which rested a large, dark orb. To the ignorant eye, it looked like crystal. Crystal with a strangely dark center.  
The Dark Lord has one of these now, Saruman thought as he approached the palantir. I must be careful how I use it.  
But Sauron is not the only one. There is a palantir in the White Tower as well, and it would not be good if the steward were to learn of the true reason I wanted Orthanc. To protect Rohan? Ha! To conquer Rohan! That is my goal, but I need Isengard and the palantir to do it.  
As he studied the palantir, Saruman wondered where exactly he had taken the fatal turn. Where had he gone wrong? When had he begun to stray from his purpose to the Valar?  
From the beginning, perhaps. He had come to Arda because he wanted power. Power to shape the denizens' lives. He had always felt that way, but being in Valinor with the Valar had suppressed his longings. In Arda, among such talentless, worthless scum, he found he was one of the mighty. He was to this rabble what the Valar were to the elves.  
It had all gone downhill from there.  
After learning of the One Ring, Saruman had hunted ceaselessly for it. First in the Gladden Fields where he had found the Elendilmir, and then all down the Anduin. At last he had conceded that it had been washed out to sea, lost forever. Then, like his fellow Istari, he had traveled the world, learning the ways of Men. They were weak, pliable, and ready to be manipulated and exploited.  
Starting with their steward.   
No. Not yet. Sauron would have an interest in breaking the steward's mind, and Saruman should be content to let him do it. No sense in compromising himself. He must keep up the facade. He must continue to be the wise leader of the White Council.   
But Galadriel suspected him.  
Ah, but no one listened to Galadriel. Who would listen to an exiled Noldo? It did not matter that she was the eldest on that Council, that she carried the ring Nenya, that she was a powerful sorceress to rival Melian of old. No, she was an exile, and the young lords – Elrond and Glorfindel chief among them – thought they knew better.  
Well, Saruman was perfectly content to leave them in their ignorance. Let them continue to think of him as their ally. He would not dissuade them. At least, not until he was ready to strike.  
Imagining the expressions on the gullible elf lords and his own kin, Saruman smiled. He tossed a cloth over the palantir and picked it up. He wasn't ready to commune with it yet.  
All the way to the top of the tower he went, the palantir clutched to his chest.   
Four mighty fangs adorned the corners of the top of Orthanc. The fangs had given the tower its name: Mount Fang. There was a second translation of the name: Cunning Mind. Appropriate, Saruman thought with a smile.  
He commanded a view that not even the eagles could hope for. He could see for miles and miles in every direction. The peaks of the Misty Mountains to the north, the White Mountains in the south. Was it his imagination, or could he see the mountains of Mordor as well? The faint glow of Orodruin lit the southern sky.  
Saruman shivered. Sauron was still alive and well, but he had not returned. Not yet. Orodruin would alert him as well as the rest of Arda when Sauron made Mordor his home once more.  
Strange things…mountains.  
Saruman looked back north. He could just barely make out the dull red slopes of Caradhras. Gandalf had once spoken to him about the mountain. Apparently it had foresight. The White Wizard had dismissed this, but then he recalled Orodruin. That mountain knew things as well. But the One Ring had been forged in its depths. Caradhras was merely home to a balrog.  
Perhaps the balrog has leaked some magic into its roots, Saruman mused. An interesting course of study. Perhaps he should travel there while he waited…investigate.   
Saruman gasped suddenly, the palantir nearly slipping from his grip. The thoughts had hardly been thought when black clouds began to gather around the peak of Caradhras.  
The mountain is powerful, Saruman thought in astonishment. It can only speak when one is on it, but it can communicate its intentions other ways. I cannot go there. The mountain will not let me live if I do.  
With a sigh, Saruman uncovered the palantir. It is said that one can only see through them, he thought. One may speak with other palantir as well, it is rumored, but not with anything else. Ah, but a Maia never used one. And not even Sauron has such skill as I in the art of magic.  
A foolish claim, for the Dark Lord had been a Maia of Aule in his early days, and he had forged the One Ring, a vessel of nigh unlimited power. Still, Saruman had seen the creation of the palantir. He had spoken with Feanor himself on the subject. There was not anyone living in Arda that could use the orb better than him.  
Taking the palantir in both his hands, Saruman focused all his will on it. Colors swirled, but he did not get dizzy or disoriented.  
The power of the mightiest of the Istari, backed by the power of Orthanc itself! Shapes appeared in the orb. They were shambling, ugly, hideous shapes. They laughed and snarled. Filthy orcs.  
Saruman's mind traveled quickly through the orcs' den, finally finding the one he wanted.  
You, he thought, and bent all his malice, all his power on it.  
The orc stumbled and staggered into a wall. It growled and clutched at its head as Saruman broke into its mind.  
I will let you go, the White Wizard promised the howling orc. But you must do something for me.  
Get out of my head, wizard! the orc screamed. Its true, spoken voice was guttural and deep, but its soul's voice carried hints – echoes – of the elf it had been. This was an old orc indeed. Saruman wished he could take the beast back to Isengard for study rather than sacrifice it.  
But the sacrifice was necessary. It would set everything up. And then everything would fall, tumbling into oblivion. And Saruman would be the last man standing.  
A dwarf is coming, Saruman warned. He is at your gates.   
We will kill him!  
No! That is not enough.   
The orc was puzzled and its determination to drive Saruman from its head wavered, letting the wizard dig deeper in.  
Mangle the body, Saruman hissed. Gouge his eyes out, cut off his beard. And put some coins of little worth in his mouth.   
Why would I do that? the orc demanded.  
Because I told you to.   
Confident that the orc's mind had been suitably impressed, Saruman withdrew. The palantir fell from his hands and began to roll across the top of Orthanc. Cursing, Saruman chased after it, seizing it just before it fell over the edge.  
His plan had worked, he knew. The orc would desecrate the dwarf's body. The dwarves would be incensed.  
And the world would fall.


	21. The War of the Dwarves and Orcs

Grish sat on a large hide-covered throne, counting small stacks of money. He had become a very wealthy goblin since ascending the throne of High Goblin of the southern Misty Mountains. No one challenged him, for he ruled with Sauron's authority, and under him his people had prospered.  
"My king," a small, runty goblin said, hurrying in and bowing repeatedly before Grish.  
"What is it? Is it the mushroom harvests?" Grish had serious doubts about the mushroom harvest. If things didn't turn out well, he'd have to send out raiding parties to nearby towns.  
"No, my king. It's the dwarves!"  
"The dwarves? What dwarves?" Grish had never heard of dwarves coming this far into his territory. They tended to stay in the north, occasionally making war against Gundabad or sniffing around Moria.  
"They're in the mountain!"  
Grish leaped to his feet. "Get the goblins together and kill them!" he roared. Was this why Sauron had wanted him here? Had the Dark Lord foreseen this strange invasion of dwarves?  
"Yes, my king. We're doing it, my king," the goblin whimpered.  
"What are they doing here anyway?"  
"The great orc king of Moria, Azog, killed one of their leaders. Desecrated his body. The dwarves were incensed."  
"Why would he do something so stupid?" Grish snarled. Killing a dwarf was one thing, but mangling the body? That could only result in a war between the two races! And Azog was rumored to be one of the more intelligent members of his race!  
"I do not know, my king," the goblin said.  
Grish cursed and seized his ax. "Lead me to the dwarves," he growled. Grish was not one to stand by and let others do his fighting.  
The tunnels were in an uproar. Goblins were scurrying everywhere, armed to the teeth. Several were heading toward escape exits. Grish bellowed at them, and they reluctantly followed him.  
Goblins were, at heart, cowardly creatures. Not Grish. His people whispered that he had the heart of an orc.  
The dwarves had not attacked from the outside, but had broken into one of the deep tunnels. Were there dwarves in other mountains as well? It seemed likely.   
"Down there," a goblin whispered, pointing down a mine shaft. Grish could hear the clatter of metal and see sparks fly as goblin metal and dwarf axes met.  
"Are they all in a tunnel?" Grish asked.  
"Yes, king."  
Excellent. "Bring me oil."  
"Oil?"  
"Yes!"  
The goblin nodded and hurried off. It returned a while later along with several others. There were several barrels of oil with it.  
"Dump it down the shaft," Grish said, gesturing to the entrance to the tunnel.  
There was explosions of cursing as the oil hit the battling dwarves. There were some goblins as well still down there and alive, but the dwarves had the advantage of better armor and weapons. Not to mention that they were trained warriors with vengeance in their hearts.  
"Toss down a torch," Grish said when the last oil barrel had been emptied.  
The goblins cackled, realizing their leader's wisdom. With a shriek of glee, one of the goblins threw down a flaming brand.  
Grish took a step back from the shaft.  
The column of fire seared several nearby goblins. As the roar of the flames died down, Grish strained to hear any voices.   
It was all quiet.  
"You are wise, king," a goblin whispered. "You have killed all the dwarves."  
"Block off the tunnel," Grish growled. "Set a guard on it and others that lead to other mountains."  
"What will we do now, king?"  
If there were dwarves here, so far from the place of insult, then this was bigger than the dead dwarf's family taking revenge. This was full-fledged war. War with dwarves carried a high risk of getting killed. Grish was no coward, but he didn't want to die.  
"Block off all tunnels," Grish said. "We are staying here."  
The goblins breathed a sigh of relief. They had been worrying about traveling to Moria and doing battle with the dwarves there.  
Feeling pleased with himself, Grish returned to his throne room, looking forward to a large goblet of wine and some sleep. Perhaps when the smoke cleared and the bodies were dragged away, he would be the most powerful goblin in all the Misty Mountains.  
Someone was waiting for him in the throne room.  
"I thought you better than the other goblins," Sauron commented, running a hand along the bone arm of the throne. "Yet you still enjoy their crude amenities."  
"It is tradition, lord," Grish said. "How may I serve?"  
"Have you been attacked by dwarves yet?"  
"Only moments ago, lord. We quickly dispatched them."  
"You are fortunate then. The other goblins are doing poorly. When this war is over, there will be very few goblins left in the Misty Mountains."  
And I will be on top, Grish thought.  
"What are your plans?"  
"I have given orders to seal off all tunnels, lord," Grish said. He hoped Sauron wouldn't send him to Moria. "We're going to stay put."  
"A wise plan," Sauron said. "There will be no more raids, no more night attacks, by goblins after this war. Everyone will think they have retreated to the deepest, darkest caves to lick their wounds. And in that false belief, they will do foolish things."  
"And I will somehow aid you in correcting those false beliefs?" Grish asked.  
Sauron smiled. "You will indeed," he said.   
"Pardon me, lord, but Azog's behavior seems…unusual. Very out of character for him."  
"It is. Someone told him to do it."  
Grish frowned. "Azog is chief orc. No one tells him what to do."  
"Magic, Grish," Sauron said. "They used magic."  
"Was it you, lord?" Grish asked. Sauron needed goblins though. He would not have them be slaughtered. No. He needed goblins, but he needed goblins in a time when the fear of goblins had subsided. He would kill them all in a second to accomplish that.  
"No, it was not me," Sauron said. He frowned. "There is a new power rising in these lands. It thinks it can manipulate fate, but it cannot. All it has done is set up the pieces."  
"The pieces, lord?"  
"In the First Age, the Revolt of the Noldor, Nirneath Anorediad, Maeglin's treachery, the Quest of Beren and Luthien, everything, were the pieces that set Earendil up for his voyage to the Valar and the destruction of Morgoth. In the Second Age, again, the pieces were set up by Numenor's rise and fall, the rings, for the War of the Last Alliance. The pieces of the Third Age are almost all set up, Grish. But not for my destruction. For my triumph! I know what Caradhras wants so much that it plays with fate. I will grant its wish, but so will Gandalf. There are two ways the pieces will fall, either with me, or with Gandalf."  
Although highly intelligent for his species, Grish still was rather puzzled at this one. "Do you mean the Third Age is coming to an end?" he asked.  
"Yes," Sauron said. "The Fourth Age will be the last of this world. And the longest. It will either be one of my domination, or one where I am gone."  
"You mean, either you or this Gandalf will win?" Grish asked.  
"Exactly."  
Grish had heard little of Gandalf, but he knew enough to know that a world the Istari ruled would not be to his liking.   
"We both – fools that we are – have placed all our hope in others," Sauron said. He was looking off into the distance now, speaking to some unseen other. "I have put my power, my strength, into the Ring. The indestructible, invulnerable, Ring. Gandalf, on the other hand, has put fate in the hands of the weak, the frail."  
"Am I a piece in this, lord?" Grish asked.  
Sauron smiled and turned his attention back to the goblin. "Yes," he said. "You are a very, very important piece, Grish. For you will destroy all of Gandalf's hopes. Caradhras will set up the playing field. Gandalf will not be there to help, and his pawn will fall. Because of you."  
Such responsibility… What if Grish failed? No! He mustn't think of failure. "How will I know when it is time?" he asked.  
"You will know, Grish. You will know."


	22. White Wolves

Khamul had a sour expression on her face, which Aica didn't notice as she was buried in her palantir, tracking their quarry. The wolves did though. They were huge white beasts with enormous paws and teeth.  
The war was over and the dwarves had won. However, they had won at such great cost that it had hardly been worth winning.   
"The Battle of Azanulbizar was exciting," Aica said. During the whole battle, no one in Minas Morgul had seen a glimpse of Aica. She'd been locked in her room, glued to the palantir.  
"Who died?"  
"Lots of dwarves, more orcs, one or two important dwarves, and Azog. They cut off his head and jammed some coins in his mouth."  
"Did the balrog get involved?"  
"No. It was still lurking in the halls. One of the dwarves…Dain Ironfoot, saw it. Everyone was talking about reclaiming Moria, but then he went in for a look and noticed that there was a freaking great monster in it. That discouraged people."  
Khamul nodded. The goblins of the Misty Mountains had been virtually wiped out. Quite a lot had fled south to Rohan, where they were being slaughtered by the hundreds.  
"The tide's turning against us," she muttered.  
Aica looked up, a nasty smile on her face. She leaned down from the horse and patted one of the wolves. "Not with these on our side," she said.   
"Where is he?" Khamul asked.  
Aica looked into the palantir, then glanced around. Her eyes fixed on a group of trees not far away. "They have a camp there," she said.  
"What? That's impossible! That grove couldn't be more than five trees thick!"  
"It's a lot denser than it looks and they've got a permanent camp in it."  
"How many are there?"  
"Only about ten. Most of them have gone off hunting."  
Khamul smiled. "And he's there?"  
Aica nodded.   
"Go on," Khamul snapped to the wolves. "Go hunting. You heard Aica. There's a camp in the woods. Find it and kill everyone."  
"What're we going to do?" Aica asked as the pack of wolves took off toward the forest.  
"Wait and see if anyone comes out. If they do, we kill them."  
Aica grinned and twirled the palantir in her hands.  
"Do you ever talk to Sauron in that?" Khamul asked.  
"No," Aica said. "He doesn't even know I have one."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes. This is the master-stone. He just has the Ithil stone. It's not as powerful."  
The idea of Aica having something more powerful than Sauron was deeply amusing. "So he can't spy on you through his or something?"  
"If there was a third palantir, and Sauron was talking to that person, then I could spy on them and neither one would know I was listening in."  
"Really?" Khamul asked. This had possibilities. Except these were the only two palantir in existence…weren't they? "Are there anymore palantir?" she asked.  
"There were seven originally," Aica said. "One's in Tower Hills and it's completely worthless. Only looks to the West."  
"And the others?"  
"Two were lost with Arvedui, I've got one, and Sauron's got one."  
"You're missing two," Khamul said.  
"What?"  
"Tower Hills, two with Arvedui, you, and Sauron. That only adds up to five. Where are the other two?"  
Aica frowned. "Uhhh… Oh! One's in this abandoned keep somewhere in Gondor. They forgot that it's there, but I spied into it and found it. It's in this black tower…near plains."  
A horrible thought occurred to Khamul. "Is there a ring of stone around this tower?" she asked.  
"Yes," Aica said. "What is it?"  
"Isengard!" Khamul exclaimed. "That's Orthanc! There's a palantir in Orthanc!"  
"Isn't that where the wizard is?"  
"Yes! That's why he wanted it! He's got a palantir!"  
"The Orthanc stone isn't powerful at all," Aica said.   
"Where is the last one?" Khamul hissed.  
"I never really looked for it."  
"Why not?"  
Aica shrugged. "I didn't feel like it."  
"Do it. Now."  
Aica scowled but put her hands on the palantir and closed her eyes. I know where six are, she thought. Where is the seventh?  
Blue skies from white windows. Clouds. Another tower. From another window she could see ruins far across a river. And beyond that…black mountains.  
"Minas Tirith," Aica said.  
"Argh!"  
"It's also in a tower."  
"The White Tower!" Khamul growled. "The steward of Gondor has a palantir as well!"  
"At least three of them are useless," Aica said. "Two at the bottom of the sea, and the third only looking West."  
"The steward of Gondor and an Istari have a palantir!"  
"So?"  
"So they…wait…is the Minas Tirith stone powerful?"  
"Not as powerful as mine," Aica said. "About as powerful as the Ithil stone, although it really depends on the will of the user."  
"Will?"  
"If it was Sauron versus the steward, Sauron would win because he's a Maia and the steward's a Man. Sauron has a stronger will."  
"What if it was a Man with a really strong will?"   
"I don't know. Sauron would probably still win because he's Sauron."  
"What if you and Sauron were to engage in a battle through the palantiri?" Khamul asked.  
"I don't know," Aica snapped, getting tired of questions. "The master-stone's really strong, but Sauron's a Maia."  
"Could you trick someone looking into a palantir? Show them something you wanted them to see?"  
Aica snorted. "Of course. It's incredibly easy. I could do it in my sleep, but I haven't had any practice because no one except Sauron ever looks into one."  
"Try it with the steward if he ever looks into it," Khamul said.  
"He never does. I'd've sensed it."  
"Well, keep watching," Khamul snarled. "Here come the wolves."  
The white wolf pack ran back to their handlers, mouths and coats covered in blood.  
"Successful hunting, huh?" Khamul asked.  
One of them spat something out and Khamul jumped off the horse to see what it was.  
"What is it?" Aica asked.  
Khamul cleaned the blood off a piece of metal. "It's a six-pointed star pin," she said. "It looks fancier than the others." She smiled and patted the wolf on the head. "Good job. Looks like that's one more Dunedain chieftain dead."  
"Is he the last one?"  
Khamul's smile faded. "No. His son's in Rivendell. And he'll have a son, and he'll have a son, and the damn line will just continue forever."  
"Unless we sever it, huh?" Aica asked, smiling.  
"We're going back to Minas Morgul now," Khamul said, "but if you ever see a man come out of Rivendell, particularly a young man, tell me."  
"Probably going to be him, huh?"  
"Or another one of the Dunedain. It'll be good to track their movements."  
Khamul thought the tide was turning against them, but Aica couldn't disagree more. They had two palantir, a growing host of orcs and trolls, and the ringbearers themselves. They also had the element of complete and utter surprise.


	23. Overwhelming Odds

"I always enjoy company."  
Khamul smiled weakly and poked at the food. It looked like chicken, but who knew what it was? An orc did the cooking around here, no doubt, and they thought anything that moved was food.  
"Is something troubling you?" Sauron asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"No, I'm fine."  
"Ah, that is good. You made good time as well."  
"It's easier without all the orcs and Dunlendings in Rohan," Khamul said.  
"Yes, they've all been slaughtered or driven out, haven't they?"  
Khamul nodded. "The land's pretty empty now."  
"Except for the wizard."  
Khamul didn't know what to think about Saruman. He wasn't – as Morion and most of the others feared – a great and powerful ally of good. But neither was he on their side. He was a man out solely for himself. Dangerous and to be watched, of course, but not to be worried about as much.  
Khamul just shrugged. "You wanted to talk to me?" she asked. She didn't like the pleasantries Sauron enjoyed so much.  
"Yes," the Dark Lord said. "The War of Dwarves and Orcs has moved along my plans much faster than I would have chosen. Things are starting to happen in Arda. As you may know, a dragon now inhabits Erebor, the Lonely Mountain."  
Khamul had heard about it, but she hadn't paid it much attention. It had seemed like a distant rumor while she was working in Gondor, a world away from the mountain.  
"It's true?" she asked.  
"Yes. It is a fire drake known as Smaug," Sauron said.  
Khamul jerked slightly. Smaug. The dragon from almost two thousand years ago. He'd remembered her words and come to the western part of Middle-Earth at last.   
"Is that important?" Khamul asked.  
"It is always useful to a have a dragon in the area. It will take some bribery, but I believe he will be open to joining my forces." Unlike the balrog, was left hanging silently in the air.  
"Do you want me to talk to him?" Khamul asked. I am not talking to that dragon again, she thought. No way, no how.  
"Nothing of the sort. Besides, I believe you would only refuse. No, the reason I called you here is to offer you…a position."  
"A position?"  
"Only for a short while."  
"Where?"  
"Here." Sauron gestured to the fortress around them. "In Dol Guldor. I could do with having someone around besides the mindless orcs."  
Khamul's eyes narrowed. "Are the elves massing for an attack?" she asked.  
"No, they are far too busy dealing with several large colonies of spiders that have sprung up throughout their forests."  
"So what is it?"  
"You think I have some sort of ulterior motive?"  
"Of course you do!"  
"Very well," Sauron said. "I have recently…acquired something that others may wish to find."  
"What is this 'something'?"   
"A Dark Lord must have some secrets, Khamul," Sauron said.  
"So you want me to stay here and guard something that you don't want to tell me about?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes," Sauron said.  
"What's coming after it exactly?"  
"I do not know. However, it is very important that they do not find it."  
"Obviously." Khamul frowned. "Is this about the Ring?" she asked.  
"No," Sauron said. "And do not speak of the One again. Unless you have news about its whereabouts."  
A creepy Halfling has it, I was a few feet from it, but then I lost it. No. Better not tell him that.  
"I understand," Khamul said. "I'll guard this thing."  
"Good. Now, I have a question."  
"Yes?"  
"How has Morion been doing?"  
"What?"  
"The incident with the balrog disturbed him," Sauron said. "Is he better?"  
"He's pretty much locked himself in his office since then," Khamul said. "He's been very active in planning the war though. Given it his full attention."  
"I know that. How does he look? Is he ill?"  
Khamul thought about this. "Everyone's been looking a bit strange," she said. "Paler. Thinner."  
"Do you notice it?"  
"A little. Not much."  
"Good," Sauron said. "You are a human and your life has been stretched so far beyond its natural course that even elves would find it difficult to live your life and be able to resist the temptations of the Grey Havens."  
"What happens after we win?" Khamul asked.  
"Excuse me?"  
"What happens after you get your Ring back and you're the ruler of the world?"  
"What do you want to happen?" Sauron asked.  
"No, tell me. What are you going to do?"  
"I am still planning the war. It is better not to measure the drapes before you own the house, eh?"  
"You have plans," Khamul said. "What are you going to do with us?"  
"I suppose you will continue to serve me as you always have."  
"Forever?"  
"Until The End."  
Forever. Like this. Khamul enjoyed her life for the most part, but sometimes it did drag on. And forever…as Sauron's servant. A Sauron who was the most powerful being in all Arda. Who knew her every move. Who was always watching her.  
"You seem to be turning a bit pale yourself," Sauron commented.   
"Yeah…just thinking."  
"About what?"  
"Nothing. Never mind. Morion is going a bit strange."  
"What do you mean?"  
"He's starting to talk to himself. He's a lot paler than the rest of us, and he seems…hollow. He just…just…er…he…" Khamul tried to find the words. It was hard to explain exactly. "I think Morgoth is doing something to his mind. Sucking his soul out or something."  
Sauron nodded as if this was no more than he expected.  
"You knew this was going to happen?" Khamul gasped.  
"Yes," Sauron said. "I expected no less from the great Dark Lord. Morion is in Arda, while Morgoth is in the Land of the Lost. Morgoth will eventually switch places with Morion and become a living being on Arda."  
Khamul's eyes widened. "What do we do then? Will it be like in Numenor?"  
"Oh no. Morgoth will be powerful, yes, but he will be trapped in the body. He will be as a mortal is. A death in that body would send him back to the Void. Beyond the Door of Night."  
Khamul frowned. "Could we…?" Kill the Vala? she finished silently, wondering how deep Sauron's loyalties to his former master ran.  
"He protected himself against that," Sauron said. "No man can slay him."  
"No man, or no Man?" Khamul asked.  
"Either, I believe. It is a simple metaphor for all beings. Crude, but useful."  
"He fears Rohan," Khamul said, remembering the incident with Eorl.  
"Eh?"  
"He wanted Eorl dead so badly he nearly lost his mind when the little bastard lived. He almost permanently damaged Morion."  
"The Eorlingas cannot slay either Morion or Morgoth," Sauron said. "They are men in both senses of the word."  
You see a lot, Sauron, Khamul thought. But in some areas you really are blind. Why did you pick me and Vorea and most of the others in the first place? Because we were women. Because no one would suspect us until it was too late. Because we would be constantly underestimated. And here you are, falling into the same trap. Will there be the same results? Maybe.  
"Maybe he just doesn't like horses," Khamul said.  
Sauron smiled. "Perhaps. I suspect he did not wish for Gondor to have an ally. I would have agreed with his plan had I known about it. As it is, I wish it had succeeded. Rohan has been making a nuisance of itself."  
It was more than that. Morgoth saw that Rohan would be a threat to himself, him, Morgoth. He wanted to eliminate the threat, but failed. So the threat was there.   
Sauron talked for a while longer, speaking about new renovations to Dol Guldor, but Khamul's mind was elsewhere.  
Morgoth would one day take over Morion's body, sending his soul to the Land of the Lost. If Morgoth were killed, then perhaps Morion would return to his body.   
If and when Sauron retrieved the Ring, he would rule as an all-powerful, all-seeing Dark Lord. There would be no place to hide, no place to wander off when she got bored. It would an eternity of service. Khamul did not sign up for that. She signed up for an eternity, plain and simple. With a dose of power on the side.  
It was a daunting task, but it was one that had to be carried out. First of all, the House of Eorl had to be kept safe. Someone in there was going to have the potential to kill Morgoth. Second, Sauron couldn't get the Ring back. Ever.  
Two Dark Lords, one a fallen Vala, the other, the mightiest Maia on Arda. And here was Khamul, a Haradrim with a magic ring. How could she possibly think about going up against them?  
Khamul smiled a little. Since when did she back down from overwhelming odds?


	24. The Pieces Fall

"I do not know these woods well. I fear I only walked in them in the brighter days."  
"Ah, that is well then, Grey Pilgrim. For I walk in them now in these dark times."  
Gandalf smiled. A very polite elf, this young Legolas was. Still, there was something strange about him that was a bit...off.   
"You can guide me to Dol Guldor?" the Istari asked.  
Legolas paled slightly. "Yes," he said, nodding. "I can do that."  
"Good. There is something there I must seek."  
"What is it?"  
"Ah, I fear I cannot tell you, young elf. Not yet anyway. Soon though, soon I think you will see it for yourself."  
Legolas raised an eyebrow at these cryptic words, but nodded. "You are wise, Grey Pilgrim. You trust in no one but yourself."  
"That is not true, young Legolas. I trust in the head of my order, in Master Elrond, in your father…"  
"But you keep your own council."  
Gandalf chuckled. "In some cases. I must admit though, I am curious as to what dwells in the shadowed fortress of Dol Guldor. Who, or what, is the Necromancer truly?"  
"They say he is the Witch-King of Angmar."  
"Ah, but I know for a fact that the Witch-King dwells in Minas Morgul."  
"Another Nazgul then?"  
"But the power here is so strong, so powerful. I do not think it is one of the Nine."  
"Then who could it be?" Legolas asked, apparently puzzled.   
There was something in the elf's eye that disturbed Gandalf. There was something about Legolas in general that disturbed him. He looked like a Sindar brought up as a wood elf, but there was an elegance to him, an almost…almost Noldorian trace in him. Yet both his parents had been full-blooded Sindar. The more Gandalf looked, the more he saw age written across young Legolas's face. There was more to this elf than met the eye.  
"We are close," the elf said. The forest had become thick and twisted, the ground soft and marshy. There were noxious fumes in the air.  
"I can see it." Out of the treetops loomed the black crags of Dol Guldor.  
Legolas hesitated. "There is a sewage grate on the western side of the fortress. It looks rusted, so you should be able to get in that way."  
"How do you know this?" Gandalf had refrained from asking that question. He had been to grateful that the elf knew the way to Dol Guldor. He hadn't relished the idea of getting lost in the murky, evil-haunted forest.  
"I know all of the forest," Legolas said simply.  
Gandalf would save the rest of his questions for later. He had to get inside. He needed to know if it was Sauron.  
"A sewage grate, you say?" he asked.  
Legolas smirked. "The great Istari is afraid of getting his robes soiled?"  
"I merely want to confirm the place."  
"Yes, grate by the western wall."  
Gandalf nodded. "Thank you for your help."  
"Good luck."  
Clutching his staff tightly in his hand, Gandalf continued toward the black fortress. The castle was perched on jagged, bare rock. It commanded an excellent view of the surrounding area, but since most of that area was thick forest, Gandalf didn't expect anyone to notice him.  
The foliage had grown up over the years, and it came to the base of the rock. There, just ten feet away, was the grate. It was badly rusted, Gandalf could see. It was almost like an invitation. 'Break in here!' it seemed to cry.  
But there was no better option. Frowning, Gandalf crept forward, looking every which way for goblins, orcs, or wolves.  
There was nothing.  
Perhaps the Necromancer had abandoned his fortress.  
Reaching the grate, Gandalf glanced around, then struck it with his staff. There was a crack and a clatter, and the gate caved in.  
Still no guards, no noise, no nothing.  
Gandalf hurried into the tunnel. It looked like it hadn't been in use for a long time. There was a lingering foul odor, but the sides of the tunnel were dry, and the ceiling was covered with moss.  
Gandalf's heart beat faster. What was this? Had he walked straight into a trap? Obviously, but what kind was it? Did Sauron anticipate his coming?  
The tunnel branched into several larger tunnels. Gandalf knew vaguely where he needed to go, but he wasn't sure exactly. One could get turned around very easily in tunnels.  
He turned into one tunnel and came to an abrupt stop. There, not five feet away, was a beam of light. He glanced up and saw it came from a grate in a floor.  
This was too easy.  
Again, the grate was rusted. Though it was not large enough for Gandalf to crawl though, a few jabs with his staff knocked enough stone around it away for him to enter.  
He saw in an instant that he was in the dungeons of Dol Guldor. Exactly where he wanted to be, as who in their right mind would break in here? There was something wrong about this.  
All around him were iron bars, sealing off prisoners from the corridor in which he walked. There were scraps of bone and cloth in some, dried blood on the walls, but they were all empty.  
Except for one.  
"Thrain!" Gandalf gasped, recognizing the prisoner in an instant and hurrying to where the battered dwarf lay. He looked pale enough to be dead. The blood all over his face gave him a nightmarish quality.  
"Th-Tharkun?" Thrain whispered, opening one eye. The other was swollen shut.  
"Yes, it is I," Gandalf said. He had many names, and his one among the dwarves was Tharkun.   
"You have come too late. I-I am dying."  
"I know, my friend. I regret my tardiness."  
"M-my son. You m-must give these to him." Thrain fumbled with something in his pocket. Gandalf could not believe the Necromancer would have missed anything of value.  
"What is it, my friend?"  
Thrain pulled out a folded square of parchment and a key. "T-take these," he gasped.   
"What are they for?"  
"The k-key to E-Erebor. And the m-map."  
The map and key to the Lonely Mountain! Never in all his wonderings did Gandalf think he might find these here!  
"Thank you," Gandalf said. "I will make sure your son gets them. What is his name?"  
Thrain smiled weakly. "H-He will be a good d-dwarf."  
"Thrain? Your son? What is his name?"  
Thrain smiled slightly and Gandalf sighed. The dwarf would not answer him. Perhaps another question. "Who rules here? What is the Necromancer?"  
A shadow of fear and pain crossed Thrain's face. "T-The N-Necromancer?"  
"Yes. Who is he?"  
"H-He is…he is…"  
"Sauron the Great!"   
Gandalf jumped to his feet and spun around to face the voice.  
Khamul walked down the hall, swinging her sword lazily.  
"I thought as much," Gandalf said.  
"Sauron thought someone would break in."  
"He made it far too easy."  
Something crossed Khamul's face. She hadn't been surprised to see him, which Gandalf had expected, this being a trap and all. She had looked rather…happy though. Pleased that he had arrived. And now she looked a little nervous.  
"You!" Gandalf exclaimed in sudden realization. "You weakened the grates!"  
"So what if I did?" Khamul snapped.  
"How did you know I would come that way?"  
"There's a lot about that elf you don't know," Khamul said.   
Was Legolas under Sauron's sway? No, Gandalf didn't think so, strange though he was. Perhaps someone here had seen him sneaking around.  
"So it is Sauron who rules here?" Gandalf asked, wanting to confirm his findings before he made a desperate escape.  
Khamul nodded. "Sauron's the Necromancer. He's just biding his time until he returns to Mordor."  
"Why are you telling me this?"  
"Because you'll never leave here alive."  
Khamul charged and lunged at him with what Gandalf deduced was a half-hearted attempt to kill him.   
"You wanted me to come here and you want me to escape," Gandalf said.  
"Do you think Sauron left that map and key with him?" Khamul growled. "No! He didn't give a damn about them, but the dwarf kept mumbling about them. I figured they were important and gave 'em back."  
"Why have you betrayed your master?" Gandalf asked, easily side-stepping a slash of Khamul's sword.  
"I haven't betrayed him," Khamul growled. "I don't want him to win, but I sure don't want you to either. This two thousand year stalemate has been just fine with me. I don't want to see it go away."  
"It has all been building up to these last few years," Gandalf said. "All things must end. It will end with victory for one side and one side only. You must choose a side, Khamul." He stretched out his hand. "Let us leave this place together. Join the Valar."  
If she left Sauron, if she really left him, the ring would probably leave as well. Khamul didn't know what would happen then, but it would end one way or another with her mortal death. She wasn't about to let that happen.  
"Get out," Khamul snapped. "You've got your map and your key, now clear off! Or maybe I'll just kill you." She raised her sword.  
"Farewell, Thrain!" Gandalf called. The dwarf didn't respond; he was already dead.  
Khamul watched as the Istari jumped back into the hole in the floor. The noise of his footsteps faded as he hurried from the place.  
What would he do with the map and mysterious key? Khamul had already spent long hours puzzling over the map but couldn't find anything stranger than a road to the Lonely Mountain. Smaug lived there now, but the dwarves wanted it back.  
Maybe the key and map were a way to do that?  
Khamul sighed and sat down on a nearby barrel. She slowly counted to five hundred before raising the alarm.


	25. The Wise Decision

"The Necromancer is Sauron."  
The stillness of the Council erupted into chaos. Several members jumped to their feet. All were shouting.  
Saruman raised a hand and gradually silence fell. "Are you certain of this?" he asked.  
"Beyond any doubt," Gandalf said. "I have walked the paths of Mirkwood and entered Dol Guldor itself."  
There were gasps of astonishment at this mighty deed.  
"You saw him then?" Saruman asked. "You saw the Necromancer?"  
"No, but –"  
"You did not see him, but you are sure it is Sauron?"  
"Yes," Gandalf said. "I am certain of it."  
"What proof do you have then?"  
"I spoke with one of his servants. They swore it was Sauron."  
"You trust a servant of the Necromancer?" Saruman asked. He snorted. "Orcs and Men lie."  
Argonui, Chieftain of the Dunedain, shifted in his seat and cast a baleful glare at Saruman.  
"Gandalf speaks the truth," Galadriel said. "The Necromancer is Sauron. We must act, drive him from Mirkwood, before he becomes stronger."  
"Such an attempt would cost thousands of lives," Saruman said. "And we are not even certain that it is Sauron."  
"I know it is him," Gandalf said.  
"Yes, but you did not see him. His servant could have lied. This could be a trap. Perhaps the Necromancer had word of Gandalf's coming and set this cunning snare for him. His servant tells Gandalf that the Necromancer is the Dark Lord, and then the White Council sends forth an army, which is met by some terrible creation of the Necromancer's."  
"Should we not drive the Necromancer from Dol Guldor though?" Glorfindel asked. "His evil has polluted the land too long."  
"We could be walking into a trap," Saruman said. "We must investigate this course of action thoroughly before acting."  
"Yes," Elrond agreed. "That is wise. The Necromancer has showed himself to be of great cunning. He has effectively crippled Thranduil by the hordes of spiders and wolves that infest his forest."  
"Let us have a vote," Saruman said. "Shall we rush headlong into danger and nigh-certain death? Or shall we send forth spies and gather information to make a reasoned decision?"  
There was no need for a vote; Saruman had already decided the outcome.  
"It is a shame you only got three votes," Argonui said as he and Gandalf left the chamber. They were both going the same way back to their lands. Argonui would probably stop at Bree, whereas Gandalf would continue on to the Shire. It was a pleasant place, and he had need of the green fields and bright flowers after dark Dol Guldor.  
"It is sad that one of those votes was my own," Gandalf said. "Will you be going by Bree on your way? I could use a drink at the Prancing Pony."  
Argonui shook his head. "I head north. There are rumors of large wolves roaming the land."  
"There are rumors of wolves everywhere these days. It is the work of Dol Guldor. If only – !" Gandalf sighed. "Perhaps in time."  
"Not in my time," Argonui said, running a hand through his graying hair. "Not in my time."  
*  
The Fell Winter came with a vengeance. White wolves descended from the north, slaying animals and men alike. Dunedain fell by the dozens, whether to cold, illness, or the wolves' sharp teeth. Argonui was among them, found frozen to death one morning.  
By the entrance to the Redhorn Gate, another shrine crumbled under the weight of ice and snow. Three remained.


	26. The Hunt Begins

"Although I can see you have been enjoying your stay, regrettably I must ask that you travel north," Sauron said.  
"Good," Khamul said. She had been taking a nap. "Where am I going and what am I doing?" She had been in this place for far too long.   
"Kill the Dunedain," Sauron said. "Kill their leaders, and make sure you do it this time. I don't care if you have to travel to Rivendell itself and sneak in. I want them dead."  
"What's brought on this sudden rash of hatred?"  
"The time is drawing near. It is the year 2928. Soon I will leave Dol Guldor. Soon I will return to Mordor. And then my plans will begin in earnest. I cannot have the Dunedain interfering with this. I cannot have a king in Gondor."  
"They wouldn't accept any of them as king," Khamul said. "The people in Gondor are pigheaded idiots!"  
"Be that as it may, the line of Isildur must end."  
Khamul smiled. "It will," she said. "The last heir will die by my hand."  
"Good," Sauron said. "Hurry though. There is not much time."  
"What's going to happen?" Khamul asked.  
Sauron's gaze went to the window. The Misty Mountains were shrouded with fog and cloud, but you could just see the dull red slopes.  
"Oh, not Caradhras again," Khamul grumbled. "What part is it playing in all this?"  
"A very large one. If Grish succeeds, all of Gandalf's hopes will fail."  
"Who's Grish and what does he need to succeed at?"  
"Grish is a goblin. The one who was supposed to slay Eorl. Regrettably, he failed."  
Khamul frowned. That arrogant goblin! She remembered him. He'd ignored her! Her! A Nazgul! The filthy little creature…when she found him, she'd…  
"Caradhras wishes to be rid of the balrog in Moria," Sauron continued. "I can do that, but Gandalf may also be able to. It has opened the playing field to us. Upon its slopes the fate of the world shall be shaped."  
And mine as well, Khamul thought. It'll only let me pass when it's time for my 'destiny'. Stupid thing, destiny.  
"If Grish knows what to do, then the possibility of victory for Gandalf will be gone," Sauron said.   
That wouldn't be so bad, Khamul thought. Maybe it's me and not Grish who's supposed to do whatever it is that's got to be done.  
"Soon," Sauron whispered. "So soon. Go to the north and make sure all is ready."  
"Yes, sir," Khamul muttered. She snatched up her sword from where it lay nearby. On her way to get her horse she paused near a rack of weapons.   
"Something take your fancy, Shrieker?" a one-eyed orc asked.  
"Is that a Haradrim bow?"  
"Yes, Shrieker. Don't know how it came to be here, but that's what it is."  
Khamul picked it up. It felt just like her old one. Old one. Ha. It'd been thousands and thousands of years since she'd held her old bow. It was nothing but dust by now.  
"You want it?" the orc asked.  
"Do you have some arrows as well?"   
The orc nodded and picked up a quiver full of arrows. The arrowheads were leaf-shaped and the metal was painted black. Haradrim arrows.  
All her carefully cultivated skills were gone now, but Khamul had the time to refresh them. It was always good to have a second weapon.  
*  
"Step quietly, men!" Arador hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.   
"What is it?" one of the Rangers asked.  
"There's something up there."  
"Has the scout come back?"  
Arador shook his head. "I don't know if he will."  
"Do you think it's orcs, Chieftain?"  
What else could it be? The Trollshaws were south of here, and the goblins had been killed almost to a man during the war with the dwarves.  
"Be ready for a fight," Arador said.   
The Rangers quickly brought arrows to bowstrings and drew swords. They crept forward, quiet as whispers.   
"Trolls," a Ranger breathed as they looked on a small clearing.  
A group of huge, hulking beasts sat around a campfire, snorting and growling at one another. They were more civilized than Cave-Trolls at least, in that they wore clothes and it seemed they were making some kind of conversation with each other.  
Arador frowned and glanced up at the clouded sky. "It is day," he muttered. "How can they be out?"  
"They must be Hill-Trolls, sir," a Ranger whispered. "Those don't turn to stone."  
"Bah, there are too many types of trolls in this world."  
"There are about to be five less."  
Arador nodded. He gestured to the archers and then to the trolls. The bows went up and the arrows were pulled back.  
Six arrows flew, embedding themselves in troll flesh. The Rangers burst out of the trees, swords raised.  
Roaring in pain, the trolls leaped to their feet. One had a club that Arador hadn't seen. It took two Rangers out with a single swing, smashing them into trees. There was a ghastly crunch of bone and gristle.  
"Men!" a troll growled. "Food!"  
"Sharp bits," another troll grumbled, picking an arrow out of its arm.  
"Here's another sharp bit," Arador growled, driving his sword into the troll's gut. It howled and thrashed, hurling Arador into a tree. The Chieftain's breath was knocked from his body and he collapsed onto the ground.  
The world wavered and blurred. When it finally cleared, everything was quiet.  
With a low moan, Arador sat up. His head and ribs hurt.   
Looking around, he saw the bodies of his men. The trolls – all five of them – were back to sitting around the campfire. One of them had the body of a Ranger in his hands and was rending it into pieces.  
"Tasty, tasty," it said.  
Arador turned away from the grisly sight. He was about to vomit. He could still hear the noises, the cracking of bone, the rip of meat, the crunching…  
Staggering to his feet, Arador tried to run away but fell after a single step, tumbling to the forest floor.  
"There one! Almost got away!"  
No! The trolls saw him! He had to run!   
Dragging himself across the ground, Arador nearly wept in frustration. He could never escape trolls like this. He was going to die. His son would have this dreadful job now. And he would die, too. And his son, and his son, and so on and so on.  
Someone stepped in front of him. They were too small for a troll.   
Glancing up, Arador saw a woman looking down at him. She was dressed all in black. A quiver and bow were slung across her back and she wore a sword at her waist.  
"Help me," he gasped.  
"Food!" the trolls roared. Arador didn't need to look behind him to know the trolls were there, just feet away. A large droplet of drool fell on his shoulder.  
"You want to eat him?" the woman asked, pointing at Arador.  
"No," Arador said. "Help me! Please!"  
"Food!" the trolls yelled.  
The woman drew her sword. "Yes, all right," she said.   
"No!" Arador couldn't reach his sword or dagger. It didn't matter though. The sword fell far too fast.  
The man's head rolled from his shoulders. The trolls eagerly seized the body and carried it away to the fire.  
Khamul kicked the man's head so it rolled face-up. Yes, there was Isildur in the face.   
"Another one dead," she spat. Except there was still one left. She had learned that he'd married recently. If she acted quickly enough, she might end the line before another one was born.  
Walking from the clearing where the trolls feasted, Khamul whistled for her horse. She set her eyes on the west. It was said that the heir of Isildur's wife liked Bree. They were living there now.   
Bree was also the place Khamul had first met Aica and Ringe. It was about time for some revenge.


	27. Arrow of the Haradrim

"Demons! Demons!"  
"What is it?" Arathorn yelled, sprinting down into the main room of the Prancing Pony.  
"Demons!" a man wailed, gesturing wildly.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"There's a demon outside! It's dressed in black! It shot my friend!"  
"It's just orcs," the barkeep said. "They've been getting rowdy again. The gates are closed, aren't they?"  
"It's a demon!" the man screamed. "It's a demon!"  
Arathorn sighed. Everyone was looking at him. He could feel their eyes on him, asking him what to do. That was the problem with being the chief of the Rangers. They all expected him to fix everything.  
"Is everything all right?"   
Arathorn glanced up at the stairs. Gilraen was there, holding their young son in her arms.  
"Yes, everything's fine," he said. "Go back to sleep."  
She nodded, but cast the distraught man a wary glance.  
"What makes you think it's a demon?" Arathorn asked once his wife was gone.   
"There was a horseman in the road. My friend and I, we're farmers. We were coming to town with some grain –"  
"This late at night?"  
"We're coming all the way from Tharbad!"  
"Tharbad's in ruins."  
"Outlying lands aren't."  
Arathorn nodded, not sure whether or not to trust this man.  
"We saw the horseman," the man said. "We stopped and greeted 'im. He didn't say nothing! And then he started coming closer. It was as cold as the grave, but it just kept getting colder. I started feeling really funny."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Like…like there was no hope in the world. Like there was just death and oblivion. Horrible things."  
"And then what?"  
"The thing attacked! It cut my friend's head clean off!"  
"What did you do?"  
"What do you think I did? Jumped off the cart and started running. I only stopped when I got here!"  
"Are you sure it wasn't a brigand? There have been an increase in bandits lately."  
The man shook his head. "It was a demon! Horrible feeling!"  
Arathorn sighed. "I'll go out in the morning and see what it is."  
There was a loud commotion outside the inn. Customers hurried to the windows, and then they ran back, shrieking.  
"What is it?" Arathorn yelled.  
"The demon!" the man screamed. "It's coming!"  
Arathorn's hand went to his sword as the inn door swung open. A figure dressed in black entered.  
The inn went mad.  
A cold, clammy feeling gripped Arathorn. He had to warn Gilraen, but what was the point? They would die. Everyone would die. The dark would win.  
"No!" he exclaimed and pushed through the crowd. He reached the stairs and bolted up them.  
"What's wrong?" Gilraen gasped.   
Arathorn almost smiled. She was dressed in traveling clothes, a long dagger hanging at her waist. Their child was all bundled up and on her back.  
"You need to leave," Arathorn said. "There is some…creature here. Go to Rivendell. That has always been a refuge."  
"Will I see you again?" Gilraen asked, kissing him on the cheek.  
"I doubt it."  
She nodded and blinked back tears. The Dunedain women had become accustomed to losing their men. "Go," she said. "Whatever it is, it is after you. Lead it away from here."  
Arathorn nodded. "I plan to."  
He ran back down the stairs. There were bodies in the room. The demon-thing was fighting off three men and it appeared to be winning.  
"Hey!" Arathorn cried.   
There was a brief moment of stillness in which everyone stopped fighting, stopped moving. Then the thing struck one man in the chest, kicked another in the knee, and brought its sword pommel onto the last man's head.  
Arathorn bolted out of the inn's front door, running for the stables. There was a black horse in the street. He was tempted to seize it, but it was the demon's horse, he knew. It would throw him in an instant.  
"I need my horse!" he screamed at the stable boy.  
"What, sir?"  
"My horse! Where is it?"  
"Right over there."  
Arathorn ran to the horse and threw the stable door open. He saw the demon already on its steed. It was waiting for him in the street. But there was nowhere else to go.  
He didn't have time to saddle the horse. It knew him well enough that it shouldn't try to throw him.  
"Come on, boy," Arathorn whispered to the horse. "One last ride. Come on."  
The horse raced out of the stable, galloping so fast Arathorn's deathgrip on its mane was only just barely enough to keep him on its back.  
The black horse was after him, chasing him down. It was fast, but Arathorn's horse was faster. For now. If this horse was anything like its master then it may have strange qualities of its own.  
The gates of Bree were open and both Arathorn and his pursuer raced through them, one right after another.  
Would he be able to lose this demon in the woods? Arathorn wondered. Would he even be able to stay on his horse?  
Down the road he went. His horse was beginning to slow, foam flying from its mouth. It had run too fast and was starting to collapse.  
"No, no, a little longer," Arathorn whispered. "Please!"  
The horse faltered once and slowed considerably. Looking behind him, Arathorn saw the black rider closing. It raised a bow.   
"Faster! Faster!" Arathorn yelled at his horse, but the poor thing could go no faster nor further. It stumbled, almost falling.  
The rider set an arrow to the bowstring and pulled it back. The first shot went wild, whizzing over Arathorn's head. There was a sharp curse, but then another arrow was drawn back.  
Arathorn gasped as the arrow sped toward him. It seemed to him that time slowed down, but he slowed along with it. He could not get out of the way, but could only watch as the arrow came closer and closer.  
There was a loud thunk as it struck him through the eye. Arathorn pitched forward off his horse and lay on the ground, unmoving.   
The black rider stopped near the body and looked down at it. Then they jumped down and prodded Arathorn in the side.  
"Yup, he's dead."  
Khamul pried the arrow out of Arathorn's eye and cleaned it off. Did he have a child? She didn't know. If he didn't, she'd just killed the last heir of Isildur. It was strangely unfulfilling though, and she suspected that a last heir still lurked…somewhere. They were damn hard to find when they didn't want to be found.  
Replacing the arrow in her quiver, Khamul jumped back on her horse. Where to now? Whatever Dunedain hideouts she knew of. Perhaps the heir would be there. If he even existed.


	28. The Time Has Come

The horses stepped along the path. It was curiously free of snow for winter. The legends had that it was always coated with snow, sometimes with a thick layer of treacherous ice. Treacherous. Yes, this was the most treacherous pass of them all. Crossing the slopes of Orodruin would be better than this. But this was the only way to get to Lorien.  
There were small shrines lining the path to the gate itself. At least ten by the look of it, though all but one had collapsed. There were some animal's teeth on two, a little stone carving on another, and a half-buried arrow on the next to last. The last though, was decked with beautiful flowers. So strange to see fresh flowers in such cold weather.  
"I don't like this," one of the riders said as they entered the pass.   
"Whyever not?" another inquired.  
"It's…clear. Caradhras is never like this. It's up to something."  
"What do you mean?" another chuckled. "You speak of it as though it were alive!"  
"It is! It…speaks. Sometimes. It's up to something. You can be sure of that."  
The others in the group laughed at the speaker. A mountain that talked? How mad! The man must've lost his wits!  
Caradhras watched them without the maniacal hatred that had colored nearly all its other decisions regarding travelers. It watched without the indifference it showed most animals. Instead, it watched with intense interest. Who would it be that would free it from the plague of the balrog? Sauron or Gandalf?   
As the travelers continued up the pass, Caradhras hoped the goblin would know it was time. Everything hinged on the goblin.  
*  
"Sir, sir!"  
"What is it?" Grish growled. He much preferred his dwelling in the southern range of his realm to Caradhras. Here he was caught between the mountain and the balrog. And he wasn't sure which one was worse.  
"It's…it's…" the goblin stammered.  
"Spit it out!"  
"The mountain!"   
"What about the mountain?"  
"It's… You have to come see for yourself, sir!"  
Grish rolled his eyes, but followed the goblin toward a cave leading to the pass. He didn't know why he'd come to Caradhras, but he felt like he should check up on it once in a while. Make sure it hadn't caused a cave in and killed every goblin living it. He wouldn't put something like that past the wretched mountain.  
"I don't see anything," he growled as he looked out on the pass.  
"There's no snow," the goblin whispered, looking at the bare rock with fearful eyes.  
There wasn't. Smooth rock lined the pass, making for easy travel. There were no potholes, no sudden drop-offs, nothing. It looked like an ideal road, an invitation to travelers.  
Grish frowned. What was the mountain playing at now?  
And then he knew.  
"Get the goblins!" he snarled. "There are travelers on this pass!"  
"Yes, sir. But they're heavily armed. And there are a lot of them."  
"Capture them!" Grish snarled. "They are it!"  
"What?"  
"Follow my orders!"  
The goblin nodded and hurried off. So, the time had finally come, eh? Well, Grish was going to fulfill Sauron's orders. He'd kill the travelers and doom the Istari's plans. But not before he knew exactly what it was that could tip the balance of the world.


	29. Firin

Firin stumbled over a tree root and fell flat on his face. It took him a moment to get up, but he eventually hauled himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and continued on his way.  
He was going to do a very noble, brave thing and no one would ever make fun of him again.  
He had refrained from telling anyone about this simply because they would tell him he was a fool (his father and brothers), tell him to leave such things to real men (brothers), or to go find something that he was actually capable of doing (father).  
There were very, very few things that Firin was good at. He was very short, nearly as short as a dwarf, and extremely thin. He also happened to be ten years old.   
Besides physical awkwardness, Firin was never as clever as his father or brothers. His mother ignored him, instead lavishing her attention on his older brothers.  
The only person who had ever paid attention to Firin had been his nursemaid, but she was gone now, having returned to her family far in the north.  
Firin missed her. Much more than he would miss his father or brothers if they were to leave. But she was still only his nursemaid. She…she wasn't as important as his mother.  
The thought caused tears to spring to Firin's eyes. Not for his mother, no, never for her. But for the idea that he must love her more than the woman who raised him simply because she had given birth to him.  
And now she had been captured by the orcs of Caradhras, and Firin was going to rescue her. He didn't particularly want to rescue her. She had, if he recalled correctly, never said a single word to him nor even cast a glance his way. At least his father berated him on a regular basis.  
Firin made up for his awkwardness and his uselessness in one area. He was reasonably, passably, intelligent. He spent hours and hours reading in the family's library, pouring over books and manuscripts. He knew everything there was to know about many things in the world. Things he would never see, cooped up in the house in the north.  
One day I'll see the world, Firin thought. In fact, I am right now. A little part of it, at least. But that'll be enough for now. Once I rescue Mother I'll be able to go where I like. Everyone will look at me and say 'There goes the great Firin! He rescued the Lady from orcs, not to mention braved the slopes of Caradhras!'  
Firin smiled at this, though at the thought of the great mountain, his heart sank. Caradhras frightened him more than orcs ever could. Orcs could be fought, eluded, or hidden from. Not the mountain though. It was always there, and it held his fate in its…whatever the mountainous equivalent of hands were.  
The Misty Mountains came closer and closer as the day wore on. Firin rested under a tree for the night before continuing on in the morning. It was the fortieth day after he'd left his home when he finally reached the Redhorn Gate.  
Snow covered the pass. Great icicles hung from overhanging rocks, threatening to drop and cause severe injury to those below. It looked like a deathtrap. But he had to go on.  
Near the gate were ruins of little shrines. No doubt they were to those who had died on the pass.  
Firin shivered, then looked closer. The second-to-last shrine had a piece of metal on it. Bending down, Firin picked it up. It was an arrowhead, painted black.   
"A Haradrim arrow!" Firin gasped. He'd only read about such things! To see it now, in the flesh! How fascinating!  
He wanted to pocket it, but it was rude to steal from shrines. Besides, the mountain might take offense.  
He had several arrowheads in his pocket, not that he had any arrows or a bow. He'd taken them anyway, pilfered them from his brothers' supply. Who knew if they might come in handy?  
"Here, an equal exchange," Firin said, placing the shiniest arrowhead on the broken shrine while pocketing the Haradrim one.  
There were sixteen shrines, now that he looked closely. The first few were barely visible, and none of the others were very interesting. The last had some rather nice flowers on them, but they were just wildflowers. Nothing rare or uncommon.   
Steeling himself, Firin took a deep breath and walked into the pass. The snow deepened and occasionally he crunched through ice. Fortunately, the hanging icicles above didn't fall.  
As he walked on, Firin wasn't sure what to do. He'd planned on being accosted by goblins by now, fighting them and driving them off, and then following them into their lair. He wasn't sure how to find the goblin hideout from here.  
The wind began to pick up and soon rose to a howling pitch. Snow blew around Firin, and the cold started to seep into his bones.  
I need to find shelter! he thought, looking around for a place to wait out the storm. There were no caves though. There was nothing.  
Was there a voice on the wind? Firin wasn't sure. There might be, but he couldn't tell. It was probably just the wind. Wind could make strange noises.  
Stumbling through the snow, Firin tripped and fell. He couldn't get up. He was so cold, and so tired. So very, very tired… He just wanted to lie down and rest.  
Dragging himself away from the edge of the pass, Firin rested his head against the mountain wall. The sides were red.   
"It's true," Firin muttered. "I thought it was just a metaphor."  
He knew he shouldn't close his eyes, just like he knew he shouldn't have laid down. But he was so tired.   
Firin closed his eyes. The wailing of the wind reached a peak. The words among the wailing were gibberish. Meaningless words.   
"Hope…" Firin muttered, hearing it in the wind. "Eagle…star…elf…" Firin couldn't finish. His lips were cold, he was cold. The cold began to drift away then, replaced by a peaceful feeling. He could see something gray even though his eyes were closed. It looked like mist.   
As the rest of the world fell away, Firin could no longer hear the wailing of the wind, the strange mutterings of the voice. He couldn't feel the cold, the tiredness, the fear. Nothing. Everything was gone. It was wonderful.   
The mist began to part. There was green beyond it. Wonderful green hills. So beautiful. Blue water lapping at white sand. It was warm there, peaceful there. There were people waiting for him. He could see them.   
One was a shadow, hardly visible. It was his nursemaid. The other was a man, gone gray-haired before his time. They were waiting, together. Waiting for him.  
Firin smiled and started across the water, not caring how he could move on the liquid. Only caring that he reached them, these two people who were the only ones who had ever cared about him.


	30. Destiny

Somehow, someway, Khamul always drifted south. She would catch herself and go back north, but it was pointless, she knew. Isildur's Heir would be in Rivendell, like they always were. But there was the possibility – the smallest, tiniest chance – that he might be wandering the lands. And Khamul would catch him.  
She was heading south again, and she had crossed the Greyflood. She was in the lands that had once been Eregion. Now she was heading east.  
Khamul knew where her horse was taking her, where she was letting it steer her. She let the horse take her there, let Caradhras's lure take them both in.  
Maybe the horse would even go up the path this time.  
Khamul smirked. She doubted it. But then again, things were happening in the world. Perhaps it was time.  
Azanulbizar was deserted, as usual. The water of Mirrormere had gone from beautiful to a sort of rotten state. It looked dangerous and ill, almost green. Khamul stayed far from the edge of the path. If the stone gave way, she didn't want to fall into the fetid water.  
The wind began to pick up as they went higher. The Redhorn Gate loomed near. This was the third time Khamul had been here in her too-long life. There was something different about it. She could feel it.   
Glancing to the side of the path, Khamul saw the shrines. Only one was still standing, and it still had flowers on it. Was it Khamul's imagination, or were those the very same fresh flowers that had been there almost a thousand years ago?  
"The arrow's gone," Khamul muttered, glancing to the shrine immediately to the left of the last. It had once held a Haradrim arrowhead, which Khamul had tried unsuccessfully to take. The arrowhead was gone.  
Her horse kept moving, to Khamul's surprise. It usually stopped by now.   
The beginning of the pass was right in front of them. Only a few more steps… And there they were, on the pass itself.  
Khamul tensed. This was it. Destiny time. Perhaps a dozen rogue trolls would attack her. The balrog itself, maybe, come crawling out from Moria.   
She expected Caradhras to say something, warn her, give another prophecy. The mountain was quiet though. Snow drifted down from the black clouds above. The wind whistled, but all in all it was rather pleasant.  
Frowning, hand tightly clenched on her sword, Khamul watched and waited for something to happen. So far, nothing. Her horse just kept plodding along, having no great difficulty in navigating the snowy path.  
"What is it?" Khamul muttered. "What could it possibly be?"  
They had almost reached the peak of the pass. Still nothing. Perhaps Caradhras was asleep, or its attention was diverted. Maybe it didn't want to waste anymore time dissuading her from passing.  
"What is it?" Khamul hissed again.  
"Mother?"  
Khamul looked around, half-drawing her sword. "Who's there?" she snarled. Stupid, she thought. It's a child's voice. But what's a child doing here?  
Seeing no one in the blinding white landscape, Khamul hopped down and began poking around in the large lumps of snow. Most of them were rocks, but when she poked one, it gasped.  
"Who are you?" Khamul muttered as she dug out a half-frozen boy. He couldn't be much more than ten years old, she thought. Almost dead by the looks of him.  
The boy didn't answer. His head lolled to one side. He was blue from cold. If Khamul hadn't come along, he'd have been dead within the hour.  
"Where's a cave when you need one?" Khamul grumbled, looking around.  
A large icicle fell from an overhanging rock. It smashed through a huge pile of snow, revealing a large crack in the mountain's face.  
"I knew you were paying attention," Khamul said with a smirk. Caradhras wanted the boy to live. Or it had interest in her finding a cave.   
A blizzard started in earnest once Khamul, her horse, and the boy were inside. It was rather spacious, but not suspiciously so. Khamul could see all the walls. There were no secret entrances to the goblin tunnels that riddled the mountain.  
"You going to wake up?" Khamul asked as she started a fire. It cast eerie shadows on the walls, but it quickly warmed the cave. Soon Khamul thought it was almost too hot.  
It was nearly two hours after she'd found the cave that the boy woke up.  
"Where am I?" he muttered.   
"You're awake," Khamul said. "That's good, I suppose. How in the name of every Vala did you get up here?"  
"Where am I?"  
"Is that all you can say?"  
"I'm in a cave." The boy sat up and looked around. He was short and skinny with shaggy brown hair, grayish eyes, and two front teeth that were a little too big. He looked like he could be either a resident of Eriador or maybe a Dunlending.   
"How'd you get here?" Khamul asked. She wished she had some food. Firstly, because she herself was hungry, not having eaten since she'd left Dol Guldor about fifteen years ago. Secondly, this boy looked like he could do with a decent meal. When it came to men and women of all races, classes, and creeds, Khamul would slaughter with abandon, but children… She wasn't about to just leave some stupid kid to die. He reminded her of Eorl a little. Eorl had been more trouble than he was worth though.  
"I walked here," the boy said. He smiled. It didn't improve his looks. "My name's Firin. Who are you?"  
"Khamul. Why'd you come here? Are you mad?"  
"Are you a Haradrim? I've never met a Haradrim before. I thought they all lived down south in Harad. Are you from Harad? Is it very hot?"  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm from there. It is hot. There's lots of sand, too."  
Firin's eyes widened. "Wow," he said. "I'd like to go there someday."  
"They don't really like visitors."  
"Oh." Firin sighed and looked hurt. "No one really likes me."  
"It's not you specifically. It's just visitors in general."  
"Is it because of Hyarmendacil?"  
"How do you know about him?" Khamul snapped.  
"I read a lot," Firin said. "It was him, wasn't it? That was a terrible thing he did, killing all those people. You shouldn't do that in war."  
You know, Firin, Khamul thought, we might just be able to get along. "Why did you come here?" she asked. "Wanted to hear the prophetic mountain?"  
"Prophetic? It gives prophecies? I didn't know about that. I came to rescue my mother."  
Khamul raised an eyebrow. Was the mountain kidnapping people now? Well, she wouldn't put it past it.   
"My mother was crossing the mountain, and she got kidnapped by goblins," Firin explained. "I've come to rescue her."  
"You do know you're only nine or something, right? Or are you a midget?"  
"I'm ten!" Firin exclaimed.   
"Oh, ten. Well, you're certainly qualified for fighting off hordes of goblins not to mention surviving winter on Caradhras. What do you think you're doing?"  
Firin hung his head. "I…I thought it was a good idea," he muttered. "She never pays attention me, Mother doesn't. She always talks to my older brothers. She loves them. She hates me."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "No, she doesn't," she snapped. "She just…" Stupid mother, she thought. "I don't know."  
"My brothers think I'm worthless. And my father hates me as well. He can't even look at me sometimes."  
This kid either has some major issues he's not telling me about, or he's got about as rotten a family as you can get, Khamul thought.  
"So you think getting yourself killed trying to save your mother's going to make everything better?" she asked.  
"I thought it might," Firin said. "Won't it? Do you know something about things like this?"  
"No," Khamul said. "Well, I mean, it probably won't." She suddenly remembered being a child herself, desperately wanting to please parents who didn't think a girl should be a hunter.   
"You know what I'm talking about!" Firin smiled, then he turned deadly serious. "Can you help me rescue my mother? Please? It's the only way they'll ever love me. Maybe even my brothers would be nice to me then! Please!"  
"What happened?" Khamul asked.  
"What?"  
"Tell me about it. Are you sure she was captured on Caradhras?" If so, then this mountain had a hand in it.  
"Yes," Firin said, nodding. "She was trying to cross, but…the goblins."  
Grish, Khamul thought. The damn goblin's behind it, I bet. Well, it's time to settle a score, I think. "Tell you what," she said.  
"What?" Firin asked. The eager look on his face was almost sickening.  
"I'll help you," Khamul said. "I think I can…'reason' with these goblins." She smiled, imagining striking Grish's head off in one blow.


	31. Pursuit

Morion clutched his head and stumbled into his desk as the scream tore through his brain. It was so loud it would have made his ears bleed if it was real. But it was just in his head. It wasn't real, it wasn't real…  
"What is it?" he muttered as the scream died away. It wasn't a scream of pain, but of rage. Pure and utter helpless rage.  
Your Nazgul!  
"I have a lot of Nazgul," Morion said. Who had done something that had so enraged Morgoth? Probably Khamul. It was usually her. Or maybe Aica.  
The Haradrim.  
Ah, it was Khamul then. Good to know. "What did she do?" Morion asked.  
It took a moment for Morgoth to find the words. It was not often that the Dark Lord was speechless with fury, or speechless at all for that matter.   
She is going to kill the Goblin King of the southern Misty Mountains.  
"Why?"  
And now Morgoth was reluctant to tell him more. Some plans of his probably hinged on the goblin.  
"What do you want me to do about it?" Morion asked. "The Misty Mountains are many days ride across enemy territory from here. Half the orcs would be dead by the time they reached the mountains."  
Orcs, maybe, but not you.  
Morion was startled. He hadn't left Minas Morgul in centuries. "Leave?" he asked. "But…"  
Go! Take the fastest, immortal, horse and ride to Caradhras. No, she will be gone from the mountain by the time you reach it. I shall guide you.  
Morgoth really wanted Khamul stopped, Morion thought as he hurried from his office. He had his sword, as well as his enchanted dagger. They should be enough to counter any resistance, either among the goblins or from Khamul. He didn't relish the idea of fighting with Khamul though.  
Hurry! Morgoth's voice screamed inside his head. Time is running out!  
*  
"Well, the first thing we do is find an entrance to the tunnels," Khamul said, tapping the walls. "This cave is way too big to be natural. There's an entrance here, I'm sure of it."  
"Why didn't the goblins attack us then?" Firin asked. Defrosted, he was a very cheerful, upbeat child. Unfortunately, he still looked like a short beanpole with bad hair and huge teeth.   
Khamul snorted. "Because they're stupid," she said. "They don't like going outside during blizzards. They haven't got the faintest idea we're here."  
Firin's eyes held something akin to hero worship. "Do you hunt goblins?" he asked.  
No, I'm just their lord and master. "Not usually. I just know their ways."  
Firin nodded. "What will we do when we get into the tunnels?"  
"Find a goblin and shake it until it tells us where your mother is."  
"Really? They'll do that?"  
"When I'm done with it, it sure will. Aha!" Khamul smiled, tapping a thin crack in the wall. It had escaped her notice before, but there was a crack running from the floor to the ceiling. The entrance to a tunnel.  
"How are you going to get that open?" Firin asked.  
"Goblin gates are usually controlled by a mechanism that operates from one side only."  
Firin sighed. "So we can't get in?"  
"Not unless we have some help."   
"From who?"  
Khamul glanced up at the ceiling. No reason to look up, she thought. Caradhras is all around us.  
"Why would I aid you?" Caradhras almost sounded amused.  
"There's a voice in my head!" Firin exclaimed.   
"It's just the mountain," Khamul said.  
"I heard it earlier…when I was out in the snow. I thought it was just the wind."  
"What did it say?"  
"Words. Meaningless words. Well, they had meaning, but they didn't make sense. Eagle star. Stuff like that."  
"What does that mean?" Khamul asked.  
"It will become clear in time," Caradhras said.   
"Still manipulating destinies, huh? Maybe you can do something helpful, like opening the goblin door?"  
"That would be interfering."  
"Yes."  
"I am not allowed to interfere."  
"Who makes the rules?" Khamul asked.  
There was a long pause and Khamul realized the mountain was thinking. "A mountain…" Caradhras began, "does not directly shape the future. I create the battlefield, but others fight."  
"Who makes the rules?" Khamul demanded again.  
"…No one."  
"So who's to say you can't open the door?"  
"The fate of all Middle-Earth rests in the Misty Mountains," Caradhras said. There was a creaking as the crack began to widen.  
"Thanks," Khamul said.   
"What did it mean by that?" Firin asked, watching the crack widen. "The fate of all Middle-Earth bit."  
"It likes to say things like that. I think it's mad that it didn't get the last word in."  
"Maybe it meant something. Maybe…maybe there's a dragon in the Misty Mountains and it…no, never mind."  
"There's a dragon in the Lonely Mountain," Khamul said.   
"I'd like to go there," Firin said. "I'd like to meet a dragon. I think it would be very interesting. Have you ever met a dragon?"  
"Yes."  
"Really? What was it like?"  
"They're very big," Khamul said. "And scaly. And they have very large teeth."   
Firin was absolutely thrilled. "Can they talk?"  
"Yes, but why'd you want to talk to one? They just want to eat you!"  
"You could reason with it."  
Khamul snorted. "Reasoning with a dragon." She shook her head. That's what I did though, she thought. I reasoned with Smaug, offered him the western dwarf caves in exchange for leaving me and Glorfindel alone. It worked too.  
The crack in the stone had widened enough to allow Khamul and Firin through. Torch light glimmered in the depths of a long tunnel. No voices could be heard, but somewhere, there were plenty of goblins. And Grish. Khamul was looking forward to that meeting.  
"So…do we go in?" Firin asked.  
"Yes. Wait, do you have a weapon?"  
Firin pulled out a small utility knife.  
"You were planning on facing goblins with that?"   
"Yes. Why? Isn't it enough?"  
"Have you ever seen a goblin before?" Khamul asked.  
"Er…no."  
"I didn't think so." Great, he's going to freak out and go running down a tunnel and get lost. "Just stay behind me."  
Firin nodded. "Are there going to be a lot of goblins, do you think?"  
Khamul just rolled her eyes and started walking down the tunnel. Maybe I can intimidate them, she thought. Goblins tend to know what I am. They'll probably fall to pieces in front of me.   
Firin took a deep breath, gripped the small knife tightly, and followed her.


	32. Fast Track

"Are you sure we're heading the right way?" Firin whispered. The blazing torches indicated that the place was inhabited, but beyond that…  
"Caradhras is a huge mountain, and most of the goblins are dead," Khamul said.  
"Oh, from the war."  
"Yeah. You know about that?" The War of the Dwarves and Orcs didn't seem like something the average ten year old would know about.  
Firin nodded. "I read a lot."  
He's from a wealthy family then, but he doesn't look like it. He looks more like the stable boy who works for a wealthy family. But the stable boy wouldn't be allowed to read.   
"I hear voices," Firin whispered, his eyes widening as he looked up ahead.  
"Don't do anything," Khamul snapped. She drew her sword and slowly walked down the tunnel.   
There was a small cluster of goblins huddled around a large firepit. They were roasting something, and arguing about who got which piece.  
"I say I get that bit right there!" one snarled. "I did most of the work!"  
"Naw, you didn'! You bastard! You ough' not get any!"   
There was a roar among the goblins as one small, weaselly one snatched a piece of the meat and scurried away into the corner. It was quickly set upon by the others and the piece of meat was returned to the spit when the offender was dead.  
"Hey! You lot!" Khamul yelled, walking over to them.  
"Is that what you do with goblins?" Firin muttered, watching her. His eyes widened alarmingly at the sight of the goblins. They were certainly a lot bigger in life than in the books.  
The goblins were on their feet in a second, swords drawn, teeth bared. "Who you?" one grunted.  
"Khamul. Where's Grish?"  
"You know the leader?" the most coherent of the goblins asked.   
"Yes. Where is he?"  
The goblins exchanged looks and muttered back and forth. The coherent one stepped forward. "Though we are always glad to be of service, we fear we can't tell you where King Grish is."  
"How about I start cutting body parts off until someone does?" Khamul asked.  
There was another hurried discussion.  
"If you give us the boy, we'll tell you."  
"No. Tell me now." Khamul drew her dagger. With a sharp piece of metal in both her hands, the goblins began to pale.  
"He went south," the spokesman said. "To Methedras, we think. That's where his throne is."  
"Did he take any prisoners with him?"  
The goblins exchanged looks that were almost painfully guilty. "Er… We don't know what you're talking about," the spokesman said.  
"I'll give you five seconds," Khamul said. "Prisoners. Dead, alive, what?"  
"Uhhh… Just one answer?"  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "What happened to them?"  
"Well…King Grish took some prisoners with him. Three, we think. Maybe one more or less. As for the others…" The goblins shuffled so they hid the fire and the roasting meat.  
There was a gasp from Firin, and Khamul just frowned. "How many were in the party originally?"  
"Er…twenty? Maybe more? We didn't count. Killed a lot in the battle. King Grish wanted them alive though. He was angry about that."  
"Why did he want them?" Khamul asked. "Tons of travelers cross this mountain. They could've been heavily armed –"  
"Oh, they were."  
"Then why go after them? That's suicide!"  
"Grish made us," the spokesman said with a bitter frown. "Lots of us died. But we got them!"  
"Why though? Why?!"  
The goblins shrugged. "We don't know."  
"He just told you to go out and nab a party of traveling humans?"  
"Er…"  
"What?"  
The goblins conversed once more. "The mountain was acting a bit strange," the spokesman said. "Er…stranger."  
Khamul heaved a sigh. "What did Caradhras say?"  
The goblins exchanged glances again. "It didn't say anything," the spokesman said. "Though we're sure it…speaks."  
Khamul was beginning to get the suspicion that these goblins thought she was insane. "What did it do?"  
"The path was clear. It's never clear this time of year. King Grish thought it was a sign, and he told us to capture the travelers."  
"Was there a woman with them?" Firin asked suddenly. "Is she alive?"  
"Er…" The goblins exchanged glances once more. "Yes…we think so."  
"She's alive?"  
"Yes…"  
Firin smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. "She's alive!"  
"Why does he care?" the spokesman asked.  
"She's his mother," Khamul said. "I know you don't understand… Why are you staring at me like that?"  
"Nothing, nothing!" the spokesman exclaimed. "Nothing! No reason! King Grish took all prisoners – the woman included – to Methedras! We can show you a tunnel to get you there faster!"  
The other goblins all nodded eagerly.  
They definitely think I'm insane. "Right. Lead the way," Khamul said. "But put those weapons away now. Anyone draws one and I'll cut their head off, all right?"  
The goblins all nodded and weapons disappeared. One quickly stamped out the fire and seized the meat on the spit. There was a brief scuffle, but they were soon on their way, each goblin smacking contentedly on a bit of stringy meat.  
"They're disgusting," Firin whispered.  
"Of course they are; they're goblins," Khamul said.  
"They're eating a person!"  
"They're goblins."  
"I didn't think they'd be like this."  
"What? So damn stupid?" Khamul muttered.  
"They're…green!"   
"Is that all you noticed?"  
"And they've got such big teeth! And they're eating people!"  
"Yes," Khamul said patiently, though with more than a trace of exasperation in her voice. "See? Books don't teach you anything."  
Firin sighed. "I suppose not." Then he smiled. "If you can talk to this King Grish like you did these goblins, we should be fine though. Right?"  
"Yeah," Khamul said. Grish had already showed total and utter disregard for her orders. If she wanted the prisoners, she was going to have to cut his head off and show the rest of the measly little maggots who was boss.  
"I think it'd be a good thing if we could rescue Mother without having to kill anyone," Firin said. He cast a fearful glance at one of the goblins.   
"When you get back to your home," Khamul said, "never leave it again, all right? And by that I mean you can leave your house, but just don't go wandering off like this again. Now that you've had a taste of adventure, go home and stay there."  
Firin nodded weakly. He looked completely dejected. The goblins began laughing and jabbering at each other.  
"Hurry up, you slime!" Khamul snarled at them, kicking one in the backside. "I want to get to Methedras as soon as possible."  
"Oho!" one cackled. "Soon possible! Oho!"  
"What's it saying?" Khamul snarled.  
"What Snorb is trying to say is that he knows a way to get to Methedras faster than through the tunnels," the spokesman said.  
"Fast, fast!" Snorb said, nodding.  
"Is he an idiot?" Khamul asked.  
"Language isn't his strong suit," the spokesman said.  
"Is he talkin' 'bout the track?" the last goblin asked.  
"Track! Fast! Fast track!" Snorb laughed.  
"Yes, he is," the spokesman said.   
"What's that?" Khamul asked.  
"The dwarves used to live here before we came," the spokesman said. "They used to live all throughout the Misty Mountains. And, like you, they wanted to get from one point to another very fast. So they built the track."  
"What is it?"  
"We'll show you," the spokesman said. The goblin took an abrupt left turn and began heading up, snatching a torch off its bracket as he went.  
"One false move," Khamul hissed, her hand on her sword.  
"Fast track! Fast track!" Snorb cackled with glee. "Fast, faster, fastest! Wheee!"  
They walked up for nearly a mile before the ground leveled out. Khamul was beginning to wonder if they'd end up on top of the mountain. "Here we are," the spokesman said. "They're mostly broken, but Snorb fixed this one up."  
Khamul wasn't sure whether to trust anything made by Snorb.  
"Fix good!" Snorb said, clapping his hands. "Fast, fast!"  
Before them, stretching into the gloom, was a mining car on what looked for all the world like an ordinary mining track.   
"Looks like the normal stuff you see in a mine," Khamul said. "What's so special about it?"  
"It runs all the way to Methedras," the spokesman said. "There's rumored to be one on the other side of Moria that runs all the way to Gundabad. Haven't gone looking for that one though. On account of the Thing."  
"The Thing? Oh, the balrog."  
The three goblins shivered. "No like!" Snorb shrieked. "Nasty, nasty fire! Biting, dark fire! No good!"  
"You aren't good yourself," Khamul muttered. "How do you work it?" she asked, gesturing to the track.  
"Well, you get in the car," the spokesman said. "Then you pull this lever here, and there's this spring that pushes the car forward. And – don't quite know how it works – but somehow that spring manages to carry you all the way to Methedras."  
"Works! Fast, fast!" Snorb cried.  
"Do you trust them?" Firin asked.  
Khamul snorted. "No."  
"Should we give it a try though? We might even get there ahead of Grish."  
"I doubt it. Still, we'll save a lot of time."  
"We've tried it," the spokesman said. "Works fine for us. Besides, Snorb's a good mechanic. Even if he lacks other qualities."  
"What I'm wondering," Khamul said, "is why you're doing this. What do you stand to gain?"  
The spokesman smiled. "Grish won't last forever," he said. "When he dies, remember your good friends Arc, Hurk, and Snorb."  
Khamul nodded. "All right, I will," she said. "Come on, Firin. Let's give this thing a try." Warily, the two climbed into the mining car.   
"Hold on tight!" Arc exclaimed as Snorb raced over to the lever. "It goes very fast!"  
"Fast, fast!" Snorb yelled, pulling on the lever.  
At first, nothing happened, then something shoved the cart forward and it hurtled down a track that sloped downwards.  
The speed was so great and so sudden that Khamul was nearly thrown from the cart. She clutched onto the edges of the cart with all her strength. Next to her, Firin's face was white and his eyes were closed. He was muttering under his breath.  
The cart didn't even begin to slow down after the initial burst of speed, instead it seemed to be gaining speed. Khamul wondered how the spring could be enough to keep it going this fast.   
"I think I'm going to be sick!" Firin groaned.  
"Don't even think about it!" Khamul roared. "No! Do not vomit! Do not!" I think I might though, she thought. If I had anything in my stomach.  
Firin turned green suddenly and went limp, falling to the bottom of the cart. Well, at least he can't fall out now, Khamul thought.  
The ride continued for almost two hours before the cart reached level ground where it began to slow down. Khamul was starting to get dizzy, and when the cart hit a padded wall, slamming to a halt, she joined Firin at the bottom of the cart.  
"What happened?" he muttered.  
"I think we've arrived," Khamul said.  
"Already?"  
"Yes, apparently."  
"We're not dead."  
"I know, remarkable, isn't it?"  
"Why did those goblins ask you to remember them?"  
"Question for another time," Khamul mumbled, staggering to her feet. She had a feeling that the first step she took, she'd fall down.  
Somehow she got out of the cart, and then promptly fell down.  
"Are you all right?" Firin asked.  
"Yeah, yeah, 'm fine. Just fine. Give me a minute." Khamul dragged herself to her feet. "Give me a minute," she repeated.  
It actually took ten minutes before she and Firin were ready to continue their journey.  
Khamul took a deep breath and started walking toward a tunnel. There was a dim light coming from somewhere up ahead. And where there was a light, there would be goblins. And Grish.


	33. Rescue

The Goblin King of the southern Misty Mountains surveyed his throne room. It had grown in wealth over recent years. It was remarkable how much they had managed to pilfer from Moria without the balrog or its slaves noticing.   
"My king, a strange noise has been reported in the depths," one gangly goblin stated. "It was a sort of muffled boom."  
"Dwarves? Have they set off some kind of explosive?" Grish asked.  
"No, my king. At least, not as far as we know. We have scouts investigating."  
"Good. Have them continue to investigate."  
The goblin nodded and walked out, and was almost immediately replaced by another goblin. Grish sighed. The work of a king was never done.  
"What is it?" he asked.  
"The prisoners are restless, my king," the goblin reported.  
"Well then dope them up with whatever you gave them last time this happened."  
"My king…"  
"What?"  
"Would it not be better just to kill them?"  
"No," Grish said. He felt slightly uneasy about live captives, but he'd kill them eventually. It was a rare thing to have such prisoners as these. He wanted to enjoy them. Ah, he was a true goblin at heart no matter what the others said.   
"Yes, my king." The other goblin looked deeply worried, but he bowed to his king's orders.  
"Bring me the female," Grish said. Sauron had been right. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this immensely.  
"Yes, my king." Once more, the goblin left, and was immediately replaced by another.  
"Two miners have not returned from their position near the northern entrance," this one reported. He had a squeaky voice.  
"Did they leave the mountain?" Grish asked.  
"No, my king."  
"It could be a cave-in. Another goblin reported hearing a loud noise."  
"I suppose, my king," the goblin said. He sounded doubtful, and nervous.  
"Are there bodies?" Grish asked.  
"No, my king. There are scouts looking into it."  
"Tell me if there are any new developments."  
"Yes, my king." The goblin left, and for once, there were no more.  
Grish smiled and leaned back in his throne. The work of a king was hard, but the relaxation of a king was even better.  
In a few moments, the second goblin returned with the female prisoner.   
"Excellent," Grish said. "You may leave." He didn't even spare the goblin a glance as he left.  
*  
"I wonder what the king does," the first guard said.  
"Something interesting, I suppose," the second guard said.  
"Like with the Dunlendings?"  
"I suppose so. Only better. Dunlendings don't wash."  
"Some of them do."  
"Only rarely."  
"Well, I suppose they'd have to wash. For example, if they walked through a river, they'd technically be washing."  
"No, one can only wash if one has the intent to wash. With soap and all that."  
"Ugh! Soap!"  
The two guards stood at attention as someone approached. They tried to stand even more at attention when they saw the tall, dark figure of the Black Easterling. Haradrim. Not Easterling. Not after what had happened to the last goblin who'd called her that.  
"Is this where Grish is?" she asked.  
"Yes, ma'am!" they exclaimed, saluting.  
"They really respect you," a small human boy commented. "I thought they'd be trying to kill us both."  
"Time enough for that later," the Haradrim said. "Open the door."  
"Er…" the guards muttered.  
"I said open it!"  
"The king is…busy."  
"Open the damn door!"  
"He's busy with –"  
"You don't want me to open it myself, because that'll mean you two are dead with your heads split open!"  
The guards decided the wrath of the Haradrim was worse than the wrath of Grish. "Yes, ma'am," they chorused and wrenched open the doors.  
Khamul took a glance inside. "Stay here," she told Firin. "You two, you so much as touch him and I'll have your hearts for dinner. Got that?"  
The two guards nodded and looked down at the decidedly ugly, shrimpy human. What did he mean to the Black Easterling?  
"Kind of looks like that one…you know?" the first guard said. "If you squint. A lot."  
"Naw, he doesn't," the other said.  
"No, no, squint. Screw up your eyes and…urk!" A white-feathered arrow embedded itself in the goblin's throat. He crumpled to the ground. His companion quickly followed him.  
Knife out, Firin stared down the hallway in horror. "No!" he groaned. "Not after all I've been through!" His brothers were coming.  
There was a loud bang as the door to the throne room flew open. A short, hunchbacked goblin limped out. He had a terrible squint in one eye. The goblin had a sword in one hand and was trying to fend off Khamul. Not far behind the two was a white wraith of a woman.   
"Mother!" Firin exclaimed. "I found you!"  
"My sons!" the woman exclaimed, stretching out her hands and looking down the hallway, not even sparing a glance for Firin. "They've come for me!"  
"Mother!" a pair of voices shouted from down the hallway. More white-feathered arrows flew and goblins fell dead as they poured into the corridor.  
"What's going on?" Khamul snarled as she and Grish dueled.  
"Treacherous wraith!" Grish roared, threads of drool flying from his fangs. "Leading them here!"  
"I didn't lead anyone here! No one but him!"  
"You fool! You've damned us all!"  
"And you've insulted me for the last time!" Khamul kicked Grish in the knee. There was a loud crunch and as the goblin buckled, she sliced off his head.  
"You killed him!" Firin exclaimed, grinning, his disappointment momentarily forgotten.  
"Who's this lady?" Khamul asked, gesturing to Firin's mother, who was watching as figures in shining armor cut down goblins.  
"My mother," Firin said.  
Khamul frowned and looked at the woman. "Uhhh… Firin? What are you exactly?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"You're a Man, aren't you?"  
"Well, yes, I certainly hope so."  
"Right. Well…this lady's an elf."  
Firin nodded. "Yes. She's my mother."  
"You're not an elf."  
"Yes, I am."  
"You just said you…okay, never mind. By your appearance, speech, and intelligence, I would say you're not an elf."  
"I am!" Firin exclaimed.  
"My sons!" the woman wailed.   
"Lady," Khamul said, tapping the woman's shoulder. "Is this kid your son?"  
The woman glared at Khamul. "Foul Haradrim," she spat. "Leave. Your kind has ever allied with the dark."  
"I just saved your life. Is that boy there, Firin, your son?"  
"Firin? Oh, yes, that's what he calls him sometimes. When he's in a bad mood."  
"Who?" Khamul asked. This was starting to degenerate into madness.  
"My husband."  
"Is Firin your son?" Khamul asked. We'll talk about the name-thing later, she thought.  
"No! Of course not! Would I possibly breed something like that?" The woman pointed at Firin, a disgusted look on her face.  
"You're my mother," Firin said. "Who else would it be?"  
"You stupid boy!" the elf shrieked. "You disgusting, vile, wretched creature! I am an elf! The daughter of the two most mighty in all Arda! You dare to think yourself related to me! You are not worthy to even look upon me!"  
Khamul had heard enough. "Hey, bitch," she said. As the elf turned, Khamul punched her in the jaw.  
"You knocked her out," Firin said dully as the elf crumpled to the floor.  
"Good riddance," Khamul said. "Let's get out of here before her sons do something stupid and violent."  
"Halt!"   
"Too late," Khamul muttered, raising her sword.  
A pair of armored elves broke from the fray and charged toward them, bloody swords raised.  
"My brothers," Firin said. "Or…not."  
"Took you this long? Stupid kid," one muttered, shaking his head.   
"Damn near got yourself killed, didn't you?" the other snarled. "Shouldn't've expected any better. Father had us looking everywhere for you! It's your fault we were so late!"  
"Excuse me," Khamul hissed, "but I think you'll find we were the ones who rescued your precious mother."  
"Shut your mouth, Haradrim!" the first elf snarled.  
Khamul was about to cut him open, armor or no armor, when the elf was suddenly jerked back and thrown across the room.  
"Morion, I would be very glad to see you if you didn't have a homicidal gleam in your eye," Khamul said.   
"Who's this?" Firin asked.  
"You might call him my commanding officer," Khamul said. "Morion? Are you possessed again?"  
The Witch-King's eyes were completely black, as were the fangs in his mouth. He looked possessed, but he hadn't killed the elf. Morgoth would've killed him.  
"Get out of my way, Khamul," he hissed. "You've already caused enough trouble today!"  
Half and half, Khamul decided. It was Morion's voice, but there were echoes of Morgoth's. If this kept up much longer, Morion would lose himself all together. Without Vorea by her side, Khamul didn't like her chances of defeating the Fallen Vala.  
"What is this madness?" the second elf snarled. He raised his sword and marched toward Morion. Khamul winced.  
The other elf went flying across the room as well. It was just Khamul, Firin, and the unconscious female elf in the corridor with Morion/Morgoth. More goblins had joined the fight. Perhaps the elves would lose, though it was doubtful.  
"What do you want?" Khamul asked.  
"You have no idea what idiocy you have committed!" Morgoth snarled in Morion's voice. "Run away, Khamul!" Morion cried. "He'll kill you!"  
"What do you want?" Khamul asked. She had a feeling she knew.  
"First you dared to defend Eorl!" Morgoth growled. "And now you stand as the protector of the greatest threat to our existence."  
Khamul glanced around. Nope. It was just Firin and the elf. "Maybe you're talking to the wrong person," she said.  
"Get out of my way!" Morgoth roared, leaping forward. He drew a dagger. A pale dagger that gave off a feeling of ice, of a chill death.   
"Don't let that touch you!" Khamul bellowed, shoving Firin to the side. He slammed into a wall and slid to the floor, clutching his small knife.  
"I don't know why you want to kill him," Khamul said, "but if it's for the same stupid reason that you wanted to kill Eorl, I won't let you."  
"And if it's a very good reason?" Morgoth hissed. "If it is, perhaps, the fact that he will bring ruin upon us? If it is, perhaps, that he is Gandalf's ace, as the Ring is Sauron's?"  
Khamul looked very hard at Morgoth. Slowly, she lowered her sword.  
"Good," the Dark Vala said. He turned and advanced upon Firin. Tears were welling in the boy's eyes. He looked at Khamul with an expression of betrayal.  
The pale dagger was raised, its point sparkling.  
Khamul snorted. "You're crazy." She kicked Morgoth in the side of the knee, knocking him to the ground. He would've gone to the ground, at least, if he hadn't caught himself.  
"Traitor!" Morgoth snarled. He tried to regain his balance, but he was limping badly from the wound.  
"You're crazy!" Khamul laughed. "Crazy!"   
The flame in Morgoth's eyes flared and he rushed forward with a growl. Khamul had her back to the wall. There was nowhere to move, nowhere to go. The only thing between her and the Dark Vala with the enchanted dagger was the elf.  
Khamul smiled and stuck her foot under the elf's body. With an upwards kick, the body flew toward Morgoth. The dagger struck her in the shoulder, and together they slammed into the wall.  
"Hope this doesn't hurt too much, Morion," Khamul muttered, whirling around, raising her sword. She brought the pommel down on Morion's head. There was a loud crack and the Witch-King crumpled to the ground.  
"Is he dead?" Firin gasped.  
"No," Khamul said. "He should be fine when he wakes up."   
"You saved my life," Firin said. He looked at the elf he'd called mother. "Will she be all right?"  
"I don't know," Khamul said. "I'm leaving her for her elf kids. Who are you going with? Them or me?"  
"I can go with you?" Firin asked.  
"I'll take you back home and try to knock some sense into your father."  
"I don't think you could. He's very…set in his ways."  
Khamul smiled and put her hand on Firin's shoulder. "I've got a feeling that we've got an understanding between the two of us."


	34. Revelations

"Are you sure he'll be all right?" Firin asked.  
"He'll be fine," Khamul assured him, patting Morion across the back. He was slung over the saddle, completely unconscious.  
"How did your horse find us?" Firin asked as they rode toward the north. Escaping Methedras in the confusion had been incredibly easy. Firin now rode Morion's horse, while Khamul rode her own, which had somehow run several hundred miles to arrive at her destination. Or perhaps Snorb had sent it down the fast track as well.  
"I have no idea," Khamul said.  
"I've never ridden a horse before. Well, I have, but they've never been as nice as this one."  
"Firin?"  
"Yes?"  
"I've got a question."  
Firin's smile disappeared. "I always thought she was my mother," he said. "I suppose…maybe Father isn't my father either."  
"Could I have some names?"  
"Oh. Well…Elrond."  
Khamul closed her eyes. Ah well, it was what she'd expected. "Elrond, Celebrian, Elrohir, and Elladan."  
"Yes," Firin said, nodding.  
"Not to forget Arwen, of course. However, I don't think a Firin was ever mentioned."  
"I didn't know that," Firin muttered, staring at the ground. Then he looked up, frowning. "Arwen?"  
"Yes, Elrond's daughter. Haven't you met her?"  
Firin shook his head.  
"Ah well, she must be living in Lorien. Celebrian's mother is Galadriel after all."  
Firin nodded. "I suppose she must've been going there to visit." He slumped in the saddle. "I wonder…maybe my nursemaid…maybe she was mother. She was very nice. I wish I had told her I loved her. She probably wonders why I didn't."  
"What was her name?"   
Firin frowned, trying to recall it. "Gilraen," he said at last.  
Gilraen. Who had shouted that as Khamul hacked down inn patrons? 'Gilraen! Get out!' Something about a child as well? And it was around the right time.  
Khamul sighed.   
"Is everything all right?" Firin asked.  
No, everything was not all right. Khamul had screwed up again, only this time it was a thousand times worse. She had just saved the life of Arathorn's son, Isildur's heir. But somehow the worst thing was that she had killed the father of the boy riding beside her.   
"No, everything's fine," Khamul said. "Everything's fine." She patted Morion's back again.   
"Will he wake up?" Firin asked. "I think it'd be interesting to talk to him, if he didn't want to kill me, that is."  
"He'll be fine when he wakes up," Khamul said. "So…Rivendell? Is that where we're going?"  
Firin frowned for a moment, then nodded. "Imladris, yes."  
"Imladris," Khamul said. She smiled suddenly, the only bright spot now in her life being anticipating the expression on Elrond's face when she rode up with his wayward ward.  
Firin glanced back toward the mountains. "Should we have left my brothers there?" he asked. "There are still goblins in the tunnels."  
Khamul snorted. "Not by the time those elves're done. They'll have killed everything on, in, and around the mountain."  
"What about that wound Mo – Lady Celebrian, received?"  
Khamul shrugged. She'd been stabbed with Morion's enchanted dagger before. It hurt, a lot, and it had taken much longer to heal than it should have. How would it affect someone without a ring?  
"I hope she doesn't die," Firin said, his face twisted with worry. "That would be terrible. Master Elrond would throw me out for sure. And then I'd starve to death. I'm always hopeless in the woods."  
"Look, just take a deep breath, all right?" Khamul said. "Elrond won't throw you out."  
"Are you sure?"  
"I'm very sure."  
"Can I come with you?" Firin asked nervously, twisting the reins in his hands. "I'd really like to. You're a much better person than anyone I've met."  
Khamul smirked. A better person than a bunch of elves. Her. A Nazgul. "No," she said, shaking her head. "You can't come with me."  
"Why not?"  
Because if Sauron ever learned who you were, he'd kill you personally. "It wouldn't work," she said. "I mean, I'd like it, but it just wouldn't work."  
"I can learn! Really!"  
"It's not about you," Khamul said. Yes, it is, but it's about something you can't control.   
"Why can't I then?"  
"Maybe when you're older," Khamul said, starting to get annoyed. "Not now though. I have things I need to do."  
"Like what?" Firin asked.  
He was never going to stop badgering her with questions. Never. Unless maybe she told him the truth. But what would he say when he learned what she was? He'd hate her. The hero-worship in his eyes would be crushed. Well, it'd be crushed sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.  
Khamul took a deep breath. "Do you know about the Witch-King of Angmar?" she asked.  
Firin nodded. "I've read about him, and the other Ringwraiths as well. There's not very much information on them though," he said with a touch of disappointment.   
"What do you think of them?"  
"Well, they're evil obviously. Killing all those innocent people… They're just servants of Sauron."  
"Did Elrond ever tell you who brought back the shards of Narsil?"  
Firin's eyes widened. "I've never even seen the shards," he said reverently. "I think it was Isildur's…squire or something. Only a few people escaped the slaughter."  
"No one escaped," Khamul said. "No one."  
"How do you know?" Firin asked. There was a trace of something in his eyes. Fear. Wariness. He wasn't a stupid boy; he was getting ideas about where this conversation was headed.  
"I was there."  
"What? You've been to the Gladden Fields?"  
"Yes, almost three thousand years ago," Khamul said. "I killed Isildur, his sons, and all of his troops. I took the shards of Narsil from his son's dead fingers and brought them to Elrond."  
Firin's eyes were as wide as plates. "No," he whispered. "No, you're human! You can't be that old!"  
Khamul held up the hand with the ring on it. "I'm one of the Nine," she said. "Khamul, the Black Easterling. I've killed descendants of Isildur and Anarion alike. Kings of Gondor and Arthedain have fallen to my sword."  
Firin went deathly pale and swayed in the saddle. Khamul worried that he was going to faint. "No. It can't be true. You…no. No!"  
"It's true," Khamul said. "It's all true."  
Firin's eyes went to Morion's unconscious form. "What's he then?" he asked fearfully.  
"The Witch-King himself," Khamul said, giving Morion a slap on the back. "He's quite nice when he's not possessed by Morgoth."  
That did it. Firin's eyes rolled up in his head and he slid off the horse. Fortunately, he landed on soft ground.  
"Dammit," Khamul muttered. Hopefully Firin was all right. She hadn't meant to make him pass out. But when he woke up, what would he think of her? Would he ever trust her again? No, probably not. But that was for the best. The less he had to do with Khamul, the less chance he had of getting tangled up in the things that were coming.


	35. Hope

His sons had set out on the rescue over a month ago. Elrond was beginning to get worried. More worried. Perhaps there had been more goblins than they had anticipated. Perhaps they had been ambushed. Perhaps they were captives themselves.  
He paced back and forth along the road to Imladris. He should be at the haven itself, he knew. Waiting for them on the road wouldn't make them come home any faster. Still, it made him feel better than sitting and waiting. Here he was pacing and waiting.  
The sound of hoofbeats made the elf stop and look up. Two horses. Not enough for the party that had set out. But then again, perhaps only two had survived.  
Elrond's heart pounded in his chest as the horses drew closer. He held his breath, waiting to see who would appear when the horses rounded the final bend in the road.  
"You look pleased to see me."  
Elrond's jaw dropped. Two black horses stood in front of him. On one was Khamul the Ringwraith. A figure was slung over the saddle. Presumably it was the owner of the other horse, which would make him a Ringwraith himself.  
And on the other horse…oh Valar. Perhaps this was just a trick of his mind. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately. This had to be a hallucination.   
Estel.  
"What is going on?" Elrond gasped.   
"I've come to return your son to you," Khamul said. "Adopted son, anyway. You don't treat him very well for a son though, adopted or no."  
The Ringwraith was giving him a lecture on parenting. Elrond was hallucinating. No, it was too strange for a hallucination. He must've fallen asleep. This was a dream.  
"Are you glad to see me, Father?" Estel asked nervously.   
"You stupid boy," Elrond muttered. "You went running off! Why? Why would you do something so incredibly stupid?"  
"I went to rescue Mother."  
"She's not your mother! She's my wife!"  
"We've already had that talk," Khamul said.   
"Does he know what you are?" Elrond growled.  
"She's a Nazgul," Estel said.   
"Do you know what those creatures are?"  
Estel nodded. "They are servants of Sauron, but they have free will, Master Elrond. Khamul killed the Goblin King of the southern Misty Mountains!"  
"You did?" Elrond asked, looking at Khamul with surprise.  
"Yes, I did," Khamul growled. "I also happened to rescue your wife. She and your sons should be returning home shortly."  
He had been considering attacking Khamul, but at her words the anger flowed out of him. Elrond fell to his knees, his legs having gone completely weak.   
"Oh, thank the Valar," he whispered. "Thank the Valar."  
"Should I tell him about the wound?" Estel – Firin, whatever his name was – whispered.  
"No, not yet," Khamul said. "When I'm gone. Is Estel your real name?"  
Firin nodded. "He calls me Firin when he's mad. Most people've taken to calling me that."  
"What does it mean?"  
"Estel means 'hope'. Firin means 'death'."  
Khamul frowned. "Why would you name this kid death?" she snapped at Elrond, who looked close to tears of relief.  
"Death?" Elrond asked. "Oh, firin. It means 'natural death'."  
"What's the difference?"  
"There's a vast difference. Most of the others here think it refers to his race: he's a Man, he will die one way or the other. However…"  
"What?" Khamul asked.  
"I Saw…I think… He will die a natural death. Not by the sword or from illness."  
"Well, I suppose that's good," Khamul said. "There, something for you to look forward to," she told Estel. "I don't need to ask why you named him hope," she added to Elrond.  
"You know?" Elrond asked.  
"Guessed as much."  
"Truly, you must not be under the influence of Sauron. Or else Estel would be dead."  
"Why?" Estel asked. "What's going on? Is there something wrong with me?"  
"Everything's fine," Khamul said. "Hop off the horse and go with Master Elrond. And don't even think of leaving Imladris until you're capable of surviving on your own!"  
Estel smiled and nodded, jumping off the horse. "Will I see you again?" he asked.  
"Yes," Khamul said. "But whether we'll be on the same side then, I don't know." She turned her horse and rode away without a backward glance. Like the good immortal beast it was, Morion's horse followed.  
"Are you awake yet?" she asked as they left the valley of Rivendell.  
"I've actually been awake for about half an hour," Morion said. "But you were talking to Elrond when I woke up. I decided not to make him any more anxious."  
"Good plan. What exactly happened?"  
"Hm?"  
"When you stabbed Celebrian and tried to kill Firin and me?" Khamul asked.  
"I don't actually remember anything after entering the mountain," Morion said. "Well, I remember bits and pieces after that, but it's very choppy."  
"You and Morgoth were switching off control."  
"Ah. That explains it." Morion tried to rise and swayed dangerously. "Do you suppose you might stop and let me get on my own horse?"  
"Maybe," Khamul said. "In a minute. So long as you don't pass out."  
"I'm quite fine." Morion glanced back toward Rivendell. "Why is that human boy living with Elrond?"  
"He's an orphan and Elrond's got a soft heart," Khamul lied. Mostly.  
"Ah. Why was I trying to kill him?"  
"I don't know."  
"It's probably for the same obscure reason that Morgoth wanted me to kill Eorl," Morion muttered. "I've never figured that one out."  
"Speaking of Rohan," Khamul said, "how do you want to get back?"  
"Back?"  
"Yeah, Minas Morgul. We are going there, aren't we?"  
Morion nodded. "I suppose so. Where else would we go?"  
"I don't know. You're acting kind of weird. Are you all right?"  
Morion thought about this. "I think so," he said. "I feel a little sick, but I'm quite fine. It's just a bit…awkward."  
"What?"  
"Er…sharing a horse with you."  
"All right." Khamul jerked the reins. "You can get off."  
"Thank you." Morion slid down, almost tripped, and walked over to his horse. He was staggering a little, but after spending nearly a month unconscious, that was to be expected.  
"Who did you leave in charge?" Khamul asked as Morion adjusted the stirrups. Funny. There was a more-than-slight height difference between a diminutive boy and the Witch-King of Angmar.  
"Hm?"  
"In charge of Minas Morgul? Please tell me you left someone in charge."  
"I…don't recall."  
Khamul groaned. "So we're going to get back and it's going to be a pile of rubble. Maybe there'll even be Gondorian soldiers doing a little dance!"  
"I'm sure Vorea will have taken over."  
"She's in Ithilien!"  
"Ah…yes…that's right. Oh dear."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "It's a little worse than 'oh dear'," she snarled. "Dammit! Where are we going?"  
"To Minas Morgul," Morion said. "Why?"  
"I don't know where we're going! The damn horses have just picked a damn direction!"  
Morion sighed. "We have plenty of time. We'll find a landmark eventually."  
"Did you get hit in the head or something?" Khamul snapped.  
"What?"  
"You're not getting worried. You're very calm. Are you all right?"  
Morion shrugged. "I'm sure something will happen. It usually does. And it's usually painful. So we should enjoy the peaceful time we have right now. Besides, this is the first time I've been out of Minas Morgul for a while. So I'm going to take my time."  
Khamul cursed under her breath and tried to ascertain where they were going. "Are we heading back toward the Misty Mountains?" she asked, looking up at the looming gray peaks. "I think we are!"  
"There is no way we can cut through this forest," Morion said, gesturing to the thick brush. "We'll just have to follow the road."  
"I wonder where the road'll lead."  
"We'll find out, won't we?"


	36. Shadow of a Short Thing

"Do you smell smoke?"  
"No," Morion said. He sniffed the air, frowned. "Yes."  
Khamul sighed. "I wonder where it's coming from. We're going to turn one of these damn corners and run straight into it, I'll bet."  
They had followed the road up into the Misty Mountains and were lost in the tangle of boulders and uncertain footing. The horses seemed to have an idea of where they were going though, so Khamul and Morion let them continue as they willed.  
"They're probably leading us into a troll's lair," Khamul said. She frowned. "There are trolls around here, aren't there?"  
"Yes, there are. Quite a lot, actually, although they're mostly west of Rivendell."  
"I don't want to run into anymore of those," Khamul said. "I only narrowly escaped being eaten last time. Only because more easily killable food was around."  
Morion looked up at the sky. Thin wisps of smoke drifted through the air. "There, it's not far away," he said. "I think we're nearing the end of the pass as well."  
"What's burning?" Khamul asked.  
"Trees, I think. I'm not sure though."  
"Why? Was there a forest fire?"  
"I don't know."  
After an abrupt bend in the road, Khamul and Morion rode out into a green, hilly land. Not far away there was a small forest, in which several trees smoldered. There was a pack of goblins nearby, along with very large wargs, several of which looked badly burned.  
"Wargs and goblins," Khamul said. "I wonder what they were chasing."  
"Whatever it was, it got away," Morion said. "Or else they're cooking it for breakfast."  
"I'll guess the latter. Hey! You lot!"   
The goblins had been hurrying forward with weapons drawn, eager for fresh meat. But when they realized what the new found guests were, they started to retreat.  
"What happened here?" Khamul snapped, riding up to the largest goblin.  
"They ran up the trees," the huge goblin growled. "Killed the Great Goblin, sneaked out the door, ran up the trees."  
"Who?"  
"Dwarves. And a short thing. And it was a man with a big gray beard who killed the Goblin."  
"Dwarves, a short thing, and a Man," Khamul said. "How many?"  
The goblin frowned and began to count on its fingers. "Too many for fingers," it said at last. "Thirteen dwarves, one short thing. And the gray-beard."  
"Fifteen total," Khamul said. "Very interesting. I wonder what they were doing in the Misty Mountains."  
"We took them. Going to eat. The short thing looked tasty. Very fat. But it ran away before the others. Never saw it leave," the goblin said, frowning. "But something open door and run out. We see shadow of short thing, but nothing else."  
Khamul frowned and a trickle of dread ran down her spine. "Just the shadow?" she asked. "Nothing else? Just this thing's shadow?"  
The goblin nodded.  
"You're sure?"  
"Do you know what it's talking about?" Morion asked.  
"I'm not sure," Khamul said. "We should find this short thing. For educational purposes if nothing else."  
"Educational purposes," Morion snorted. "What does it have that you want?"  
"Nothing," Khamul said. "Nothing at all." I wonder what would, will, happen if I get the Ring? Maybe I could challenge Sauron, throw him down. I'd like to be a Dark Lord.  
"How did they escape?" Morion asked.  
"Eagles," the goblin said sulkily. "Big eagles swoop down and take them away. Don't know where they going."  
"One say somethink 'bout dragon!" another goblin squeaked. "Goin' to kill da dragon!"  
"Erebor," Morion said. "Thirteen dwarves against a dragon? They'd have to be mad!"  
"They've got a short thing with them though," Khamul said.  
"That was sarcasm, wasn't it? Please tell me you're being sarcastic. Otherwise you'll have gone mad."  
"Maybe they're mad," Khamul said. "Thirteen dwarves, a short thing, and a Man. Wait. A man with a gray beard? What else was there about him?" she asked the goblin. "Did he have a staff?"  
The goblin nodded. "Wooden staff. Had a sword, too. Big nasty sword. Sword of elf-king."  
Gandalf. And he had a magic sword now. Just great. "Why does Gandalf want a bunch of dwarves and a short thing to commit suicide?" Khamul asked.  
"Gandalf? The Istari?" Morion asked. "That's him?"  
"Yeah… I don't understand what he's doing here though."  
"We should find him. No, not him. We should look for the dwarves and thing."  
"Just what I was thinking," Khamul said. It's obvious that Gandalf would want Smaug dead, she thought, but his way of going about it? It seems more than a little crazy.  
They followed the forest road, occasionally meeting up with roving bands of goblins or wargs, but they began to thin out as they approached Mirkwood.  
"You'd think it'd be the opposite," Khamul commented. "Mirkwood's under Sauron's control. You'd think this place'd be swarming with goblins."  
"It's swarming with something," Morion muttered, watching a cloud of bees buzz through the sky.   
"I think there's a house over…oh."  
"What?"  
Khamul pointed at a large pike near the road. On it was the severed head of a goblin.  
"I think I see why they don't come around here," Morion said. "I suppose a great goblin hunter must live over there." He nodded toward a large house, just barely visible through the tress.   
"Do you smell something?" Khamul asked.  
"Flowers?"  
"No, something…metallic. Like heated metal."  
Morion glanced up at the sky. It was a warm, sunny day. He glanced at the goblin's head. "I suppose it's the goblin's blood," he said.  
"Yeah," Khamul said. "I suppose you're right." She gave the house a long look as they continued down the road. The smell reminded her of something…of that wretched Halfling with the Ring. Had it been the Halfling or the Ring that had given off that smell reminiscent of Mt. Doom? She was probably imagining things. Knowing that the Ring was once again on the move had given her a bad case of nerves.  
"Shall we enter Mirkwood?" Morion asked as they rode up to the dark forest some days later. The day was warm and bright, but the forest emanated cold and darkness.  
"Let's see if we'll run into these famous spiders," Khamul said. "Shall we swing by Dol Guldor on the way out? See if Sauron's home?"  
"I think we should follow Gandalf and his band," Morion said.   
"Get into the trees!" Khamul snapped suddenly, jumping off her horse.  
"What? What is it?"  
"Hide! Now!"  
Morion followed Khamul's example and dragged his horse into Mirkwood. The brush had grown up so tall and thick that they had no trouble hiding themselves and their horses.  
"What was that about?" Morion muttered.  
"Look," Khamul hissed.  
A rider came barreling down the plain. A gray cloak flapped about him. A long gray beard waved in the wind.   
"Gandalf," Morion whispered.  
"What's he doing running away from his little dwarves?" Khamul muttered. She grinned. "Whatever it is, he's the most dangerous one of them."  
"Are you sure about that?"  
"They're dwarves. What possible threat could they be? And now that they're without their protector, we should be able to take them easily."  
Morion's eyes narrowed. "What do you want from the dwarves?"  
"Nothing. I just want to see what they're up to. Specifically, why they think they can defeat Smaug when a mountain full of dwarves didn't do a damn thing."  
"I'm sure they have a good reason."  
"We should figure it out."  
"All right," Morion said. "We don't really have anything better to do."


	37. Mirkwood

"We need to find a road," Morion said as they slogged through the marsh, getting stuck in thick mud, and being attacked by swarms of flies. They had left the horses behind with instructions to meet them when they left Mirkwood. Would it work? Who knew, but it was worth a try. Those horses were pretty smart, after all.  
"They'll be on the road!" Khamul hissed.   
"Why are you so interested in the dwarves anyway?"  
I'm not interested in the dwarves. I'm interested in the Ring! "It's a bit strange, don't you think?" she said. "Gandalf leading a band of dwarves, and then deserting them suddenly."  
"It is strange," Morion agreed, "but perhaps he promised to lead them safely to Mirkwood. He has a soft spot for the people of Middle-Earth."  
"There's something going on," Khamul said. "The dwarves are going to kill the dragon, and the only way they'd even have a chance of winning is with Gandalf. So why's he going?"  
"Perhaps he realized they were being followed and has gone to look for us."  
"Well he just rode right by us and he didn't seem to be looking anywhere except straight ahead."  
"I don't know," Morion snapped, swatting at a large fly. "I think you know something, Khamul. You wouldn't go trekking through a swamp following some worthless dwarves unless you knew there was something in it for you."  
"If I knew something I'd tell you!" Khamul snarled.  
"I don't believe that for a second! What are we getting into? Tell me! Now!"  
"Even if I did know something, why would I tell you? Anyway, I don't!"  
"Fine," Morion said, still looking at her skeptically. "I'll be sure to remember that. You don't know anything about these dwarves, have no idea about why Gandalf was with them. No idea at all."  
"I'm – VALAR!"   
"What is it?" Morion yelled, spinning around. He screamed and jumped away as a giant spider lunged at him. It was a huge beast: its head three feet across, its legs like massive branches, and its body…  
"I can see why the elves don't like Sauron," Khamul gasped, drawing her sword.  
The spider hissed and lunged forward, its pincers clacking together, ready for the kill.  
Morion drove his sword into its nest of eyes and black blood burst forth. The spider fell to the ground, twitching and jerking.  
"At least they're easy to kill," Khamul said as Morion cleaned his sword.  
"There are a lot of them though," Morion said. "They've had almost two thousand years to multiply in here."  
"Looks like it," Khamul muttered, noticing for the first time all the webbing that hung on the trees.   
"The dwarves will be killed by these," Morion said. "Perhaps we should go back to Minas Morgul. I don't like the idea of having Yanta or one of the others in charge."  
If the spiders kill the dwarves, then they'll have the Ring, Khamul thought. They either won't know what it is and it'll lie here for eternity, or they will, in which case they'll deliver it to Sauron. And while I don't particularly mind it lying here forever, I do care if Sauron gets it back.  
"Let's just see what happens," Khamul said. She shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they're on some kind of secret mission for Gandalf."  
"I doubt that very much," Morion said. "Anyway, if the spiders don't get them, the dragon will."  
"Maybe the short thing can kill the dragon."  
Morion snorted. "Perhaps it can fly as well."  
"Maybe it can," Khamul snapped.   
The two continued to slog through the marsh, which began to turn into more solid – albeit it mossy – ground. There were a few more spider sightings, but the huge creatures scuttled away when Khamul and Morion began to draw their swords. Evidently they had learned of their comrade's fate.   
"It's getting better," Morion said. The forest was lighter, the ground firmer, and the animals and plants didn't seem quite as dark and oppressive.  
"Yeah…" Khamul muttered.  
"Is something wrong?"  
"I don't know. We're heading east…right?"  
"Yes."  
"Then we'll run into the elves sooner or later, and this is starting to look like the kind of place they'd hang around."  
Morion glanced around. "You're right," he said. "We need to be quiet."  
"Like that's really going to help. The elves are probably watching us right now."  
"Then they're in for a very unpleasant surprise."  
No elves made themselves known as Morion and Khamul walked through the forest. They entered a beautiful clearing filled with flowers and long grass. It was the ideal spot for an elf, but it was empty.  
"They're watching us," Khamul said, drawing her sword. "They're somewhere around here…"  
"I don't think they are," Morion said. "Strange, isn't it? An elf-filled wood bereft of elves."  
"If they aren't here, then where are they?"  
"The dwarves were on the road, which is a far faster way of traveling than through the brush. Presuming they weren't eaten by spiders, they would be in elf territory by now."  
"So?"  
"Dwarves and elves, Khamul."  
"Oh."  
Morion smiled. "You won't need your sword. I suspect the elves and dwarves can do our dirty work for us."  
"They wouldn't be that stupid," Khamul said. "Fighting? Well…maybe."  
"The elves are distracted by the dwarves' arrival, so we might be able to get close to the elf king's palace and perhaps learn some things."  
"I doubt he's got sensitive information just lying around."  
"You never know," Morion said with a smile.  
A road appeared after a while. The ringbearers walked alongside it, wanting to be able to leap into the brush if someone approached. Elves had an uncanny ability to sense the rings. But would they be able to sense the One if it was in the vicinity? Khamul doubted it. Sauron wouldn't make the vessel of his power visible to elves.  
"It's a hill," Khamul said, spotting the end destination of the road.  
"It's the elf king's palace," Morion corrected.  
"He lives in a hill?"  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
"I don't know!"  
"Doesn't sound very pleasant," Khamul muttered. "How do we get in?"  
"There's a door right there," Morion said, gesturing to a large set of double doors.   
"Yes, but how do we get in? I doubt they're just going to open them and invite us in."  
"We'll have to sneak in," Morion said. "When a large cart comes by, we can jump in the back."  
"What if a large cart doesn't come by?"  
"Then we can stay out here and wait for something to happen!"  
"Or perhaps wait for someone to let you in?"  
Morion and Khamul whirled around and came face to face with a smirking elf. He was tall with long black hair and handsome features. His gray eyes indicated he was Sindar, but his bearing was too noble for a Moriquendi.  
"Who're you?" Khamul snarled, her sword's point at the elf's throat.  
"Killing your salvation is a poor choice," the elf said calmly, pushing Khamul's sword away.  
"I've seen you before," Morion said. "Somewhere…I can't remember where."  
"If you were to ask Thranduil, I am his dear son, Legolas. If you were to ask Morgoth, he would curse and tell you I am Feanor, escaped from the Land of the Lost."  
"How did you escape?"  
"It won't work for you," Feanor said, laughing. "My soul was there, my body had long since been burned to ash. I escaped through a palantir into the newly-dead body of Thranduil's son."  
"And you want to help us break into your father's palace?" Khamul asked.   
"I just said I wasn't his son."  
"Right. Let me see, you are actually the legendary elf Feanor, who escaped through a palantir into a dead body. Right. Yes, that makes so much sense."  
"He was with Morgoth," Morion said quietly.  
"He can't possibly be telling the truth!" Khamul stopped, suddenly remembering Aica's little escapade into Lorien. She had let an elf out of the palantir. "Oh."  
"I see you've heard of me," Feanor said.  
"Yes…I guess you aren't insane."  
"I am not mad."  
"Good. Well, why are you letting us in?"  
"I have no love for the Moriquendi," Feanor said.  
"Yes, I gathered that when I learned you slaughtered a great deal of them," Khamul said.  
"That was long ago. I despise being one of them. Besides, perhaps you will…find something…useful."  
The Ring. He was talking about the One Ring. It was in Thranduil's palace. "Really?" Khamul asked. "Where might be this useful…thing?"  
Feanor shrugged. "I'm afraid I've been unable to locate it."  
"You're keeping secrets from me, Khamul!" Morion hissed.  
"What makes you think that?" Khamul hissed back.  
"What are you two talking about?"  
"Clearly there is something valuable in Thranduil's halls! Feanor is kindly letting us in so we can take it!"  
"What is it?"  
"I don't know!"  
Morion scowled. "You don't trust me, is that it?"  
"Of course I trust you!"  
"Then why won't you tell me what we are risking life and limb for?"  
"We aren't risking our lives."  
"So that makes it perfectly fine to lead me into what may very well be a trap!"  
"It's not a trap," Khamul said. She looked at Feanor. "Is it?"  
"Of course not," the elf replied. "Everyone is very busy deciding what to do about a party of dwarves that has been captured."  
"Anything else besides the dwarves?" Khamul asked. "A short thing, for instance?"  
"I said there was something to find," Feanor said.  
So the dwarves are imprisoned, but the short thing with the Ring is free, but in the halls, Khamul thought. Well, then we only have to find him before someone else does. I wonder why Feanor's telling me this. Wouldn't he prefer to find the thing and take the Ring for himself? He doesn't strike me as a particularly sharing person.  
"If you're done arguing, come right this way," Feanor said, gesturing toward the palace.  
"What do we have to lose?" Khamul said.  
"A lot," Morion said. "Secrecy, for one. The Wise still refuse to believe Sauron has returned. If the elves see us, his servants, here then they will know for certain that he is back."  
"We can gain a lot more," Khamul said.  
"A short thing? Or something the short thing has in its possession?"  
Morion was getting too close to the truth for comfort. "Where's the entrance?" Khamul asked the elf.  
"There's a side door for servants," Feanor said, gesturing to the side of the grassy hill. "It empties into the wine cellar. You should be able to get around unseen; there's a feast tonight."  
"Won't the wine cellar be rather busy then?" Khamul hissed.  
"The steward is a drunkard. He wouldn't notice if a giant spider was sitting across from him, drinking as well." Feanor felt around for a door and then opened a hole in the hill. "Hurry up!" he snapped.  
"No one's inside," Khamul said, glancing around as she walked in. She took a deep breath of the air. Wine, some food…and something metallic…Mt. Doom. The Ring was nearby.


	38. Down the River

"Any particularly good smells?" Morion asked dryly as he noticed Khamul sniffing the air.  
Khamul shrugged. "It smells nice."  
"It smells like vinegar."  
Now…where was the thing? It was invisible with the Ring, but in bright sunlight it cast a shadow. Unfortunately, there was no bright light around here. Which meant Khamul had to follow her nose, which was bound to raise questions from Morion.  
"Don't ask questions," Khamul snapped, moving forward, sniffing the air.  
"So you can sniff out elves now?" Morion asked. "You should've told me that a while ago; I'd have made you a scout."  
"Shut up."  
They passed an elf that had collapsed on a table, dead drunk. Khamul would have made him just dead, but Morion stayed her hand, insisting on the need for secrecy.  
"This way," Khamul hissed, slipping out of the wine cellar and into the hallway.  
"Where are we going?" Morion whispered.  
"Follow me!"  
"Follow your nose, you mean."  
The metallic smell grew stronger as Khamul moved down the hallway. She passed a door and it began to fade. "In there!" she hissed, pointing at the door.  
Morion creaked it open. "It's a storage room," he said.  
"It's hiding in there!"  
Footsteps and voices came from the other end of the hallway.  
"Get inside! Quick!" Khamul hissed, grabbing Morion and pulling him into the storeroom.  
There were barrels all around them.   
"I wonder what's in these," Morion muttered. He started to open one but Khamul slapped his hand.  
"We need to find a place to hide!" she hissed. All thoughts of the Ring had flown out of her head. The elves were at the door…they were going to come in.  
"There! We'll hide behind those crates!" Morion exclaimed, pointing to a large stack of crates by the wall.  
Khamul nodded and dived behind them just in time. The door opened and several elves walked in.  
"Time to send these off, eh?" one said.  
"Laketown needs its food too," another agreed.   
Khamul and Morion watched as the elves pushed the barrels into a fast-flowing river, raising a portcullis to allow the barrels to flow down the water.  
"Laketown is near the Lonely Mountain," Morion hissed.  
"The what?"  
"The place where Smaug is!"  
"Right." Khamul sniffed the air. The metallic smell was fading. The thing couldn't have left when the elves came in, so it must've gone out when the portcullis was raised. It was heading down the river along with those barrels…barrels that could hold a dwarf if it was squeezed in.   
"The dwarves are going down the river!" Khamul hissed.  
"You could tell all that just by smell?" Morion asked.   
"We've got to follow them!"  
"Why?"  
"Just do it! Look, the elves are distracted. We can dive into the water and follow the barrels."  
"You know how to swim?"  
"I learned," Khamul snapped. "Besides, how hard could it be?"  
Morion gave her a skeptical look but then glanced at the elves and dived into the water. Khamul followed him and they swam out into the river.  
Born and raised on Numenor, and having spent most of his mortal life on the sea, Morion could swim quite well. Khamul…less so. She had learned a few basic strokes while on the island, but she'd never bothered to practice since then. Still, one of the good things about the ring was that she didn't need air.   
"I think we'll be able to walk on the riverbed soon if you swallow anymore water," Morion said.  
"Oh shut up," Khamul muttered, spitting out a lungful of water. She coughed, not because she needed to get rid of the water, but because it was a strange sensation to have liquid filling her lungs.  
"Can you smell anything?"  
"No," Khamul snapped. She had been more concerned with staying above water.  
"Are we going the right way?"  
"Yeah."  
"But you can't smell anything."  
"I'm not really worrying about that right now!"  
"I want to make sure we're going the right way! I don't exactly enjoy swimming down rivers!"  
"Oh shut up," Khamul grumbled. She sniffed the air…there was that tinge of Mt. Doom. The smell of the Ring. "Yeah, we're going the right way."  
"I still don't understand how you can tell. I don't smell anything."  
"Maybe Morgoth's dulling your senses." He can't smell the Ring? Or maybe he doesn't know what he's looking for. Am I the only one who can do it?  
"Do dwarves give off a particularly pungent smell?" Morion asked. "Or is it something else? Perhaps one of them has a magical artifact?"  
"Don't be an idiot," Khamul snapped. "How far is it to this Laketown?"  
"A while," Morion said. "Besides, I doubt they're just going to let the barrels float freely down the river. They'll be rounded up soon, and we'll be noticed.We should get out and find our horses," he said. "They should be around here somewhere."  
"If they even understood us," Khamul said.   
"They haven't failed us before."  
"There's always a first time."  
"Might those be our horses walking by the river?" Morion asked, noticing two black horses keeping pace with the ringbearers.  
"What do you know?" Khamul muttered. "They are pretty smart."  
"The barrels will move faster than we can ride, but they must be going to Laketown. The dwarves will wish to battle Smaug."  
"They're going to die," Khamul said. Can the Ring defeat the dragon? she wondered. Can the Ring do anything for anyone other than Sauron?  
"We've been through this before," Morion said.   
"They're still going to die." Khamul swam over to the edge of the river and hauled herself out. Her horse came over to her and waited expectantly for her to mount it. Morion's horse kept its distance while the Witch-King pulled himself out of the river.  
"I will not tell Sauron," Morion promised.  
"About what?" Khamul asked, frowning at him.  
"About whatever we're following the dwarves for. Just, please, tell me."  
"I'm interested in why they think they can kill the dragon."  
"That's not it."  
"I want the treasure. You see, if they kill the dragon, we can kill the dwarves and take the treasure."  
"If they can kill the dragon, then there is a good chance they could hurt us as well."  
"Except we can't die. And we'll catch them by surprise."  
"Perhaps they have a palantir," Morion mused, watching Khamul's expression. "In that case, they would see us coming."  
"They don't have a palantir," Khamul said.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Sauron's got one, one only looks on the Undying Lands, two were lost with Arvedui, Saruman's got one, so does the steward of Gondor, and the last one was lost when Osgiliath was burned."  
"Perhaps one of the lost ones was found?"  
Khamul tried to snort derisively, but the noise stuck in her throat. "Two are lost at the bottom of a bitterly cold sea that's regularly covered with a foot-thick sheet of ice and snow."  
"And the Osgiliath stone? It only fell into the Anduin, I heard. That's easy enough to find."  
"Until it rolls out to sea. It's long gone by now. Probably found its way back to Numenor."  
"Like the Ring," Morion agreed.  
Khamul twitched. Just barely. But Morion must've noticed. He was watching her like a hawk. He'd seen that twitch, realized what it meant. He knew what they were after now. Or perhaps he didn't. He might not've been paying attention, he could have simply been making a comment.  
"I'm anxious to see what priceless treasure the dwarves have," Morion said. His lips twitched slightly. He knew.  
"Whatever it is," Khamul said, "I think we deserve it for ourselves, wouldn't you agree?"  
Morion raised an eyebrow. "And keep from Sauron what's his?" He knew it was the Ring. There were no secrets anymore.  
"It's not his if we find it first," Khamul hissed.  
"When we have it in our hands we'll decide what to do with it," Morion said.   
If you try to give it back to him, I'll kill you, Khamul thought. I don't care that you can't die, I'll rip your heart out, I'll tear your legs off. I will not let you give the Ring back to Sauron.  
"There's a road over there," Morion said, nodding at the faint path a distance away from the river. "We'll make good time to Laketown if we take it."  
Khamul was reluctant to abandon the river and potentially lose the Ring, but if they beat the dwarves to Laketown, then there was a very good chance they could lay a trap. Thirteen dwarves and a short thing against the Witch-King and his lieutenant. They didn't stand a chance.


	39. Death of a Dragon

The ringbearers arrived in Laketown late at night. The town was lit up with bright torches and loud with songs and shouts.  
"Sounds like a party," Khamul said, watching as a pair of drunks staggered down the road.  
"I believe the dwarves have arrived," Morion said, looking ahead at a large hall. It was brightest of all the buildings and seemed to be the one from which most of the drunks were coming from.  
"They're having this huge party for a bunch of dwarves?"  
"I believe the dwarves have said they would rid the town of the dragon. Obviously, this is a cause for celebration."  
"But that's crazy! Thirteen dwarves against a dragon!"  
"Perhaps the dwarves spoke of their secret weapon," Morion mused.  
"Maybe they did," Khamul said with a grin. "Shall we go see?"  
The pair rode over to the hall and dismounted, shooing the horses away. Looking in through one of the large windows, they saw thirteen bearded dwarves sitting at the head of a long table, drinking and eating and roaring with laughter and song.   
"Where's the short thing?" Morion muttered.  
"There it is!" Khamul hissed, pointing to a creature about the size of a dwarf but beardless. It was eating as voraciously as the others, but wasn't joining in the songs.   
"What is it?"  
"It's a Halfling!" Khamul exclaimed. "I've seen them before!" The Ring must really like Halflings. First Primela's nephew, now this one.   
"A Halfling?" Morion asked, looking through the window. "I've never seen one before… It is short."  
"Like a dwarf, only with hairy feet and fat."  
"How interesting. I have seen many Men, elves, and dwarves in Sauron's dungeons, but never one of these creatures."  
"They stay out of the world's affairs."  
"Until now."  
"Yes, until now."  
The ringbearers were forced to leave watching the hall when the street became crowded with more feastgoers and those who were returning home. It would not do to be seen so close to the Ring. Not until they were ready to claim it.  
The party lasted until well into the early hours of morning. Khamul was getting stiff and cold from standing near the back of a shed. Morion had fallen asleep and was twitching and muttering. Having a nice little conversation with Morgoth, Khamul deduced. It was confirmed when a streak of red appeared on Morion's cheek, oozing blood. Other than that, it seemed the Dark Lord was learning to manage his anger.  
The dwarves and Halfling left the hall as dawn rose and started to make their way to the mountain.  
"Come on, Morion!" Khamul hissed. "Now's our chance! We'll catch them when they're deep in the mountain where no one can hear them! The dwarves won't know what hit them!" She glanced down at Morion, who was still twitching and muttering, fast asleep.  
Cursing as the dwarves and Halfling moved further and further away, Khamul delivered a swift kick to Morion's ribs. The Witch-King grunted and toppled over. "We've got to follow them! Get up, you possessed imbecile!"  
Morion was dead to the world and not likely to be waking up anytime soon. Meanwhile, the Ring was slipping through Khamul's fingers. She could just leave the Witch-King. It wasn't like he was going to die or anything.   
Khamul glanced at Morion, then looked at the line of dwarves. She looked back at Morion.   
With a sigh, she sat down with her back to the shed. An hour later she started drumming her fingers on the side of the shed, but stopped when the shed's owner came out to investigate.  
"Come on, Morion," she muttered, punching him a little in the same spot she'd kicked him. He groaned again and tried to curl up into a ball. Khamul stood up and hauled him up as well. "We're leaving. Now."  
"Where am I?" Morion mumbled, opening his eyes.  
"About time! You've been sleeping the day away! Let's get going!" Khamul started off into the street and was startled to find that Morion was not following her.  
"Give me a minute," Morion muttered, rubbing his eyes.   
"We don't have a minute! The dwarves are getting away as we speak!"  
"What?" Morion gasped, his eyes flying open.   
"Yes! They left while you were sleeping!"  
"Why didn't you wake me?"  
"I tried! You were sleeping like a rock. Or maybe you were having a little talk with Morgoth. The cut on your face suggests that."  
Morion's had went to his cheek, but the slice was already healing. "They're going to kill the dragon," he said. "We can't let them do that."  
"How are they going to kill the dragon? It's a full-grown dragon and they're a bunch of undersized Men."  
"They won't kill it."  
"What are you talking about?" Khamul demanded as Morion took off down the street, going the exact opposite way of the dwarves.   
"We have to stop them!"  
"Where are you going?"  
Morion stopped. "Am I not going the right way?"  
"No!"  
"Then what is the right way?"  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "Follow me," she said, leading him along the path the dwarves took.  
It was sunset when they reached the mountains. "Can't be far from here," Khamul muttered. "Dwarves have short little legs. We must be right near them!"  
"There are horses over there," Morion said, gesturing to several pack ponies that stood near the mountain.  
"Their owners are around here somewhere then," Khamul hissed. She sniffed the air. Yes, there was the Ring. It was close…so close…  
"Can you smell them out?"  
"I think so."  
The two ringbearers moved stealthily up the mountain, pausing occasionally for Khamul to smell the air and get a sense of where the Ring was.   
"I lost it for a while," she muttered, "but now it's back."  
"Are we close?"  
"Very."  
The two clambered over a jagged rock and looked down on a small campsite. Thirteen dwarves and one Halfling.  
"Excellent," Morion hissed. His hand went to his sword, but then moved to his enchanted dagger.  
"I'll take the left side, you catch them from the right."  
"Will do. Careful: dwarves are some of the fiercest fighters in a corner."  
"They'll be on their way to Mandos or wherever they go before they can get fierce."  
Khamul tensed and got ready to spring when a thunderous roar shook the air. It knocked her and Morion to the ground where they flattened themselves, preparing for some horrible disaster.  
The dwarves were in a panic as the sky lit up like a candle. Khamul muttered curses under her breath as wind wailed and blazing heat exploded around her.  
"It's the dragon," Morion hissed.  
"Tell me something I don't know!" Khamul snarled, covering her head as the dragon's wings beat around them.  
The dragon roared in fury, nearly splitting Khamul's eardrums. The dwarves, it seemed, had escaped him. It growled, there was a rush of wind, and then the hurricane sounds faded. The dragon had left.  
Khamul peeked over the ledge. The campsite was deserted. The dwarves were gone, but to where? There was no way they could have fled. She waited for the dwarves to come out of hiding, but they never did. Where had they gone? Had the dragon gotten them after all only not realized it?  
"The horses are gone," Morion reported, glancing down the mountain. "The dragon took them when he lost the dwarves."  
"Where are the dwarves?"  
"I haven't the faintest idea." He gasped, his hands going to his stomach.  
"Are you hungry or something?" Khamul asked.  
Morion shook his head, gritting his teeth as his hands clenched until the knuckles were white. They turned red as blood leaked through his shirt.   
"Morgoth isn't happy that the dwarves got away, is he?" Khamul guessed.  
"No," Morion hissed, sinking to his knees. "It'll be fine…in a minute…"  
"We aren't going anywhere for the rest of the night. Those dwarves'll have to come out here sooner or later."  
They didn't.  
The sun was beating down hot on the rocks and Khamul. Morion had recovered from Morgoth's anger, but was still moving gingerly with one hand on his stomach. What was the point of that? Khamul wondered. If Morgoth wanted the dwarves dead, then he should make sure Morion – his hands in Arda – was in perfect condition. Then again, the Dark Lord wasn't exactly a rational being.  
"I think they got into the mountain somehow," Khamul said. "One of them went in and woke Smaug up. Then when the dragon came, they all ran inside."  
"Then they'll be fried by Smaug," Morion said.   
Khamul shrugged. "Then you have nothing to worry about."  
"What about the…thing?"  
"Now that Smaug's awake he's not just going to sit around or curl up and go back to sleep. He'll leave his lair again, and then we can sneak in and get it."  
"We'll have to be certain he isn't coming back."  
"It takes a lot of food to keep a dragon full. Those horses won't have begun to satisfy him."  
"I hope you're right." Morion laughed. "Imagine if we had the One Ring within our grasp, but we let it go!"  
"Shut up!" Khamul hissed, elbowing him hard in the ribs. "Don't say it out loud!"  
"Who's listening?"  
"Besides Morgoth?"  
"He already knows."  
"He'll tell Sauron!"  
"He won't, because if Sauron's all-powerful, then he can banish Morgoth back beyond the Door of Night. Morgoth wouldn't like that one bit."  
"So he doesn't want Sauron to get the Ring back?" Khamul asked.  
"No, not yet anyway. Not until…until Morgoth is present in this world to take it from him."  
"Until he's taken over your body and thrown your soul into some nightmarish world, you mean."  
Morion nodded. He looked pale, thin, and weak by the sun's light, which seemed to bother his eyes. He didn't look at all like the infamous Witch-King of Angmar, killer of the last king of Gondor, destroyer of Arnor, right-hand of the Dark Lord Sauron himself. He just looked like an ordinary man in trouble. It played with Khamul's heartstrings. Not that she hadn't killed plenty of men who looked just like he did. It was just… He had looked like that the day she'd first seen him. Less pale, maybe, and certainly less haunted and thin.   
Of course, Khamul had felt nothing for him then. Or had she? It had been so long ago, and it had been colored by so many emotions over the years. What had she felt that time long ago?  
"I won't let that happen."  
The words hung in the air and Khamul wondered for a moment who had spoken. She was shocked when she realized it had been her.  
"You won't let what happen?" Morion asked, his voice less than a whisper.  
"I won't let Morgoth take over your body."  
Morion smiled. "Why's that?"  
"Well, he'll get the Ring then and I don't want to be ruled over by him." You stupid, stupid idiot, she thought. She had been lying to herself for years and years, telling herself that it was merely admiration for a brilliant tactical move, or perhaps respect for his skills that Khamul felt for Morion. It was deeper than that. Ringe was right. He was right, damn his soul.   
Khamul was in love with Morion.  
"Was Ringe right?" Morion asked.   
Khamul had been gazing out at the Lonely Mountain, watching the smoke drift from its gate. She glanced back at Morion now, about to tell him that Ringe had been right. Yes, dammit, she was in love with him.  
He was smiling.  
What the smile meant, only Morion knew. Khamul, however, took the smile to mean something – likely – completely opposite of what the Witch-King meant.   
"You're mocking me!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet. "You're laughing at me! Just because you can never love me back, you're laughing! How dare you! You should have died when Numenor sank with the rest of your wretched kinsmen!" Spinning around, Khamul stormed down the mountain without a backward glance.  
"Khamul! Wait! I –" Morion began. It was too late. Khamul was already too far away. "What a fool I am," he muttered.  
How dare he! He had been laughing at her behind her back the whole time, hadn't he? He and Ringe had been snickering together at the silly ringbearer who was in love with a man who didn't care an ounce for her.   
Khamul walked until she found a nice spot by the lake and sat down on the stump of a tree. Her heart hurt and she wondered if perhaps she'd been injured by some kind of strange magic. No, it was a far more common affliction.  
"I'm not in love with him," she muttered. "I'm not."  
She remembered seeing Morion genuinely smile or laugh, all too rare these days, and she remembered the small thrill of pleasure she got.   
"Valar damn it all," she cursed, dropping her head into her hands. She was. She really was. And he'd never return it. How could he? He loved Ringe.   
Morion found her near sunset and sat down next to her. He didn't say a word. Neither did she. They both watched a beautiful sunset over the lake. It seemed a second sunset when the mountain breathed fire. Or was it the dragon?  
"I've never been incinerated by a dragon before," Khamul muttered.  
"He won't come this far," Morion said.  
Smaug didn't. He attacked Laketown with savage force, his tail smashing homes and his breath setting fire to everything and everyone in his way.   
And the dwarves were nowhere to be seen.  
"Looks like all the dwarves did was make Smaug mad," Khamul said.  
"They could not kill a dragon. It is very difficult to kill one. They cover their soft underbellies with hard gemstones."  
"I know. I knocked some off Smuag's chest when I fought him."  
Morion raised an eyebrow. "You knocked some off? Where?"  
"Left side, near his heart."  
"Near his heart…" Morion whispered, looking at the enormous dragon.  
A black arrow streaked through the sky, striking Smaug in the only part of his body he lacked armor on.   
The hollow of his left breast.  
The dragon fell with a crash, smashing structures and sending huge waves surging to the shore. Several came close to where Khamul and Morion sat.  
"Well, that's that then," Khamul said. "The dragon's dead. We can go into the mountain and kill the dwarves now."  
"How do you do it?" Morion murmured.  
"How do I do what?"  
"Every action you make, you completely unintentionally destroy Sauron's and Morgoth's plans. You get in a fight with a dragon and injure him in just the right place so he can be killed later at a critical point in history. You decide that some son of a tavern owner is worth your pity or mercy or what have you, and you save him. He grows up, saves the steward of Gondor, and founds a kingdom. How do you do it?"  
And you don't even know about Estel, Khamul thought. "I'm talented."


	40. Disagreements

The two ringbearers crept back into the ruins of Laketown early the next day. It was despair, pure and simple. Families looked through the ruins of their homes, trying to salvage a few precious possessions. People stood around, surveying the destruction with empty or weeping eyes. There was, however, one man who stood out from the rabble. A calm, collected man with black hair and a beard. The bow slung over his shoulder suggested that it was he who had killed Smaug.  
"I've got a plan," Khamul said with a grin, pushing Morion away as she sidled up to the man.  
"I did not know we had Haradrim living in Laketown," the man commented.  
"I was part of a trading party. Tragically, my friends are dead, slain by the dragon in his death throes."  
"I am sorry for you."  
"It is a great tragedy. Such wise, fine men will never been seen again."  
"I would offer you compensation, but all merchandise is gone. We have no money, our belongings are waterlogged, we have nothing."  
Khamul tapped her chin as if deep in thought. "Was he a poor dragon then?"  
"Eh?"  
"The dragon. Was he poor? In my land we are told tales of the fabulous wealth of dragons."  
The man frowned. "Well…the Lonely Mountain was once the hold of dwarves. Dragons don't spend anything so I suppose…I suppose…"  
"Yes?"  
"I suppose all the gold and jewels will still be there."  
Khamul clapped her hands together. "Excellent! Enough to rebuild Laketown, compensate the villagers for their grievous losses, and perhaps a little for my poor friends as well!"  
"There's just one problem."  
"What?"  
"There are some dwarves living there now."  
"Ah, but surely they would share. After all, it was you who killed the dragon and saved their fortune. Not them."  
"Well, yes, that's true, but it's theirs by right. Their leader, Thorin, is the descendant of the King Under the Mountain."  
"But he did not slay the dragon. You did. Surely you deserve some of the treasure?"  
The bowman scratched his chin and looked around at the ruins of his town.  
"And was not the dragon sleeping before they arrived?" Khamul whispered. "Did they not, by seeking their treasure, wake it up and cause it to attack and create this destruction in the first place?"  
"Well…yes, I suppose they did… But…but… No, the dragon awakening was their fault. As is the destruction of Laketown. They could not have known, of course, but they should pay all the same. There is more than enough gold for us all."  
"Exactly," Khamul said. She slunk away as the bowman continued to ponder.  
"Masterful work," Morion said. "The dwarves won't surrender an ounce of gold, the most worthless gem, or the most battered mail. That will –"  
"Inflame the Men, who will curse the dwarves, who will take offense and start a war, and then goodbye dwarves."  
"You should have been in charge." Morion meant it as a joke, an acknowledgment of Khamul's intelligence and shrewd dealing.   
"I should've been," Khamul snapped. "And I would have. If it wasn't for you." That wasn't true, but Khamul had wanted to be the first ringbearer, to have all that power, so badly… It was still a festering wound even after all this time.  
"I see," Morion said. "Well, I suppose there is still a chance to kill the dwarves and gain…it."  
"Yes, it. That filthy little Halfling won't be in the battle though. He's too fat and soft. He'll be hiding somewhere safe in the mountain."  
"Perhaps we should sneak in and murder him while he sleeps?"  
"Sounds good to me," Khamul said. "Maybe we should leave the dwarves alone though. If they fight the Men, they'll be killed for certain, but so will a lot of the Men."  
"That would certainly work in Sauron's favor. Although I suspect he would have preferred if Smaug lived."  
"Too late for that. He's at the bottom of the lake. Say…"  
"What?"  
"His stomach's got all those gems glued to it, doesn't it?"  
"Yes…"  
"What if we peeled them off? We could buy quite a few allegiances, eh?"  
Morion shook his head. "Bad idea. First of all, how would we get them?"  
"We can't drown, and it'd be simple to weigh ourselves down and pry them off his decaying flesh."  
"Dragon gold is cursed. I don't want anything else ghastly to happen to me because of greed."  
"You're going to let a fortune slip through your fingers just because you're scared of some stupid curse that might not even exist?"  
"Yes, I am."  
Khamul cursed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Well, let's just sit back, relax, and watch the dwarves and Men rip each other apart."  
They did not have to wait long.  
When Bard the Bowman returned from 'discussions' with Thorin, he was in a rage. "They refuse to give us even a bent piece of copper!" he thundered. "How dare they! It was their doing that roused the dragon! It is their fault that our homes lie in ruins and so many of us are dead!"  
"They're building walls, I hear," a young man said. "They're going to fortify the place."  
"It already is fortified. Even without the dragon it is damn near impregnable. Except there are only thirteen dwarves behind the walls. There are several hundred of us."  
The arrival of Thranduil and retinue sent Khamul and Morion scrambling for the brush, but the elf king sided with the Men, though the alliance seemed uneasy. Things were turning out better than Khamul could have planned.  
"They'll kill the dwarves," she predicted. "And then the Men and the elves will turn on each other. The elves will want all the gold, but so will Bard. And then they'll fight and kill each other! This couldn't get anymore perfect!"  
"I suppose so," Morion said, watching the elves carefully.  
"What? What's wrong?" Khamul frowned, worrying that her splendid plans were starting to fall to pieces.  
"There's our friend." Morion pointed to an elf a few paces from Thranduil. There was no mistaking the dark hair and ancient eyes of Feanor.   
"Huh. Who cares though? He hates the Sindar as much as us. He won't interfere."  
"No, he won't. But who's that over there?"  
"Who?"  
Morion gestured to a tall figure in a gray cloak, the hood pulled down over their face.  
"I don't know," Khamul said. "Another elf, I suppose. Why's he hiding though?"  
"That's what I'm wondering."  
As the elves and Men headed off toward the dwarves' encampment, Morion and Khamul followed them, moving in the shadows and staying out of sight. Feanor likely already suspected they were there; no reason to confirm his suspicions. Morion might think that Feanor wasn't going to cause trouble, but Khamul trusted the elf as far as she could throw him.  
The two found an excellent hiding spot among a jumble of rocks. Bard was talking to Thorin, who was cursing and yelling furiously. Thranduil just glared.  
There was a loud gasp from the dwarves, followed by such strong oaths that Khamul raised an eyebrow. "Somebody show somebody else a severed head?" she muttered.  
"No," Morion said, frowning and peering down at the assembly. "It looks like the elf in the cloak has shown the dwarves a very large white gem."  
"That's what the fuss is about?"  
"It looks quite valuable."  
"Everything in that mountain's valuable. What's so special about this?"  
"I don't know, but I assume it's sentimental value."  
"Hang on. How did the elves get the gem in the first place?"  
"I don't…oh, it's the Halfling."  
"What do you mean?"  
"The Halfling gave them the gem. Thorin is threatening to throw him over the wall. Oh my."  
"Did he?"  
"No. The man in the gray cloak has revealed himself."  
"As…?"  
"Gandalf."  
Khamul cursed. "I should've known! Ah well, it was fun while it lasted."  
"What do you mean?"   
"I mean it's over now. Gandalf's here, he'll clear everything up. He'll claim the Ring, send it off to Imladris or something. We'll never see it again. Actually, he'll probably destroy it."  
"He can't."  
"Well, he'll find someone who can then!"  
"It can only be destroyed in –"  
"In the fires of Mt. Doom, I know. Still, it doesn't matter. Gandalf will know the second he looks at that Halfling that he's got the Ring. He'll get the dwarves, elves, and Men to reconcile and that'll be that."  
"I'm not sure about that," Morion said.  
"Why not?"  
"Thorin still looks furious. He's lowering down the Halfling now."  
"Get a good look at him. We can kill him after this is over. That's the least he's owes us."  
Morion chuckled quietly, certainly not loud enough for Khamul to notice. "Oh, wait, looks like something's got their attention."  
"What is it? Has Sauron died and the rest of the ringbearers with him? Has Gandalf saved the day again?"  
"No… Oh dear…"  
"What?"  
"They seem to be preparing for battle."  
"Against each other?"  
"No… Let me get closer." Morion left the little ledge and scrambled down so he was closer to the crowd. He returned a few moments later, his face grim.  
"What is it?" Khamul demanded.  
"The goblins of the Misty Mountains have united and are bearing down on the Lonely Mountain as we speak."  
"And you're disappointed why?"  
"They were still at each other's throats when this news came. If it had been delayed, the dwarves might well have started a war. Dead dwarves are good news."  
"You've changed a lot."  
"And not for the better, I know. My soul is as black as Morgoth's own now."  
"Not that bad," Khamul muttered under her breath. "So what do we do now, O fearless leader?"  
"We stand by and watch the battle. When all becomes chaos, we step in and kill as many elves, Men, and dwarves as possible. The Halfling especially. If we kill him, or if he is killed, then we can get the Ring before Gandalf realizes it's gone."  
"Will he even be fighting? He's a fat coward like all Halflings?"  
"Have you even spent much time among Halflings?"  
"I don't need to. They're fat, food-and-drink-loving, cowards!"  
"Well, we'll see what happens, won't we?"


	41. The Battle of Five Armies

It was a dark, cloudy day when the horns of the goblins sounded. Elves in green and leather armor, grim Men in whatever simple armor they could find, and dwarves like walking fortresses. Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills had arrived to aid his kinsman, but found himself instead fighting his ancient enemy.  
Khamul scanned the army for any sign of the Halfling. She could see Gandalf and his magic sword, and there was Bard looking grimmer than all the rest of the Men, and there was Thranduil with a bow. Next to him was Feanor. As she looked at the Noldor-turned-Sindar, he glanced up, straight at her. It was as if he was seeing her. But, of course, he couldn't. She was far away, hidden in a tangle of trees nearby.  
"He's looking at you, isn't he?" Morion commented.  
"He might be."  
"He's a strange one."  
"No stranger than you."  
"He should be dead."  
"So should you."  
"What? Sacrificed on Morgoth's altar?"  
"Or dead from various wounds inflicted by yours truly and friends."  
"I wish I remembered that."  
"You don't. Now shut up, they're starting to fight."  
The armies met with a clash. For a few moments there was fairly organized battle, and then it dissolved with every man fighting for his life, his commanders screaming orders or trying to save their own skins.  
"Now," Morion said, rushing out from their hiding place. Khamul wasn't far behind, drawing her sword.  
The two took down an elf each as they waded into the bloody chaos. They quickly found the area of greatest confusion and set about attacking the Free Folk. Several Men, dwarves, and elves were startled to find their killers Men themselves.   
"Find the Halfling!" Khamul hissed.   
"Smell him out!" Morion said.  
Khamul tried, but the air was thick with blood and death. She wrinkled her nose, the smell ghastly. "I can't find him," she said.  
Morion sighed and took off a dwarf's head.  
There was a tremendous crash and all heads turned to see the great stone wall erected by thirteen dwarves collapse, killing hordes of goblins. From it burst the most heavily-armed dwarves Khamul had ever seen. They made Dain Ironfoot look like he was wearing some old second-hand stuff from the depths of the armory.  
"I'm not going up against them," Khamul muttered.  
"That's Thorin Oakenshield himself!" Morion hissed, struggling against the tide of bodies, trying to reach the famous dwarf.  
"I think they'd notice it if you killed him."  
"Who cares? This is our chance!"  
While Morion continued on his futile quest for the dwarf, Khamul scanned the ranks, searching, searching for the Halfling. He was nowhere to be seen.  
He must be wearing the damn Ring, Khamul thought, glowering. In her fury she lashed out at a goblin, putting her sword through his skull.   
"The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!"  
For some reason the words struck a cord of fear in Khamul. "Just a bunch of birds," she muttered and searched for the shouter.   
It was the Halfling.  
Cackling with glee, Khamul carved a bloody path toward him. Elves looked at her with shock as she struck them down. An arrow grazed her arm, but the wound quickly healed. If anyone had seen that, they would have thought they were hallucinating. Not that anyone had enough time to watch in the middle of a pitched battle.   
Still, if Gandalf had seen…   
He already knew the Nazgul were abroad. It would only make him regret he hadn't fought her that day in Dol Guldor.  
There he was! The Halfling! Just a few feet away, dressed in fine mail.   
Khamul grinned and raised her bloody sword. So close… Just a few insignificant people between them. And then the Ring would be hers.  
Something grabbed her and within seconds she was hundreds of feet above the battlefield.  
"What in the name of all the Valar?!" she shrieked.  
The Halfling hadn't been kidding about the eagles.  
The eagle flung Khamul through the air. She hurtled toward the ground, closing her eyes when she neared impact.  
It was much further to drop from than the Morannon. The eagle had also given her quite a bit of momentum.  
The impact was not pleasant.  
Khamul didn't know how long she lay in the body-shaped indent in the earth. It was probably hours, maybe even days. She didn't feel like getting up. Firstly, the battle was undoubtedly won by Gandalf's side. And secondly, she wasn't entirely sure if she could get up.  
"Are you alive?" Morion asked. Face-down in the dirt, Khamul couldn't see him.  
"Yes," she grunted, lifting her head.  
"Everything all healed up?"  
"Yes."  
"Gandalf won."  
"Did you kill the Halfling?"  
"I didn't even see him."  
"He was the one shouting! That was him with the damn thing about eagles!"  
"I didn't see him."  
"Did you kill Thorin?" Khamul spat.  
"No, but someone else did."  
"Good. They can divvy up the treasure however they like now."  
"Dain Ironfoot is king now, and he's giving the elves their emeralds and giving the Laketown Men plenty of gold to rebuild. He even gave the old miser lord of Laketown some."  
"Good for him."  
"The Halfling left the town a day ago."  
"Where's he going?"  
"Home."  
"Where's that?"  
"I don't know. Why don't you get up so we can follow him?"  
"Don't have my horse."  
"I do."  
Khamul pushed herself out of the impression and found Morion standing nearby, holding two horses by the reins.   
"Time to get the Ring," she said.


	42. The Halfling

Khamul was a little stiff after being smashed into the ground from a great height, but she had worked it out by the time the hard riding began. They skirted the border of Laketown and went straight onto the path through Mirkwood. Neither gave a damn who saw them.   
No spiders attacked them, no black squirrels chattered from the treetops. The forest was deathly still. If Khamul hadn't seen the spiders for herself she would've thought the forest had been cleansed of evil.  
"Seems almost pleasant, doesn't it?" she commented.  
Morion, not sharing the mood, nodded. "It's fine."  
"Something bugging you?"  
"No."  
Khamul frowned. Something was quite clearly bothering Morion, but he either didn't trust her or didn't care enough to tell her.   
Whatever was bothering Morion grew more pronounced as they continued through Mirkwood. He was glancing into every shadow, expecting to be attacked maybe, or just having a bad case of nerves.  
As for Khamul, she was loving this trip except for her gloomy companion. The sun was shining bright, the forest was green, there was the chirping of non-malevolent birds, and small animals scurried around without the least thought of violence.  
"We can't follow the road," Morion said as they left Mirkwood.  
"What? Why not?"  
"It goes past the orc-killer's house."  
"So?"  
"He's a shapeshifter. He can turn into a bear, and he is very dangerous."  
Khamul laughed. "We can kill him easily!"  
"I don't want Gandalf knowing the Nazgul are abroad."  
"He already knows it."  
"He suspects it. That's a far different thing than knowing. He must not know."  
Khamul sighed. "Fine," she snapped. "But if we lose the Ring because of this…"  
"We won't."  
Taking a roundabout way, the riders found themselves at the small village of Bree, a place Khamul promised never to set foot in again, but had broken that promise when she'd tracked down Arathorn. She'd hoped never to come back here, but fate was not kind.  
"Have you seen a man dressed in gray and a Halfling pass this way?" Morion asked the fat bartender.  
"Oh, a couple of days ago, I believe I did. Gandalf the Grey, I thought."  
"Where were they headed?"  
"Back to the little fellow's home, I thought."  
"Which would be…?"  
"Well, where all Hobbits live. The Shire. Hobbiton, I suppose."  
"You wouldn't happen to know this, er, Hobbit's, name?"  
The bartender frowned, screwing up his face as he thought intensely. "No, I don't recall it."  
"Well, we know where we're going," Morion said as he walked out of the Prancing Pony. "We don't know what the Halfling's name is though."  
"We'll catch up with him," Khamul said. "We won't have to learn his name once he's dead!"  
The two ringbearers rode like the wind. Their horses frothed at the mouth but continued thundering on.  
They hitched a ride on a ferry and came into a fine green land.   
"I've seen this place before," Khamul muttered.  
"You have?"  
"When I was coming back from Fornost."  
"What?!"  
Khamul had neglected to tell Morion of that aspect of her adventuring. "It's a long story," she said.  
"What were you doing in Fornost?"  
"Getting a Haradrim chieftain to fight the Gondorians. Look, it's in the past. Arthedain's gone."  
"Did you have an opportunity to end the Line of Isildur?"  
"No," Khamul lied.  
"Good. Of course, if you did, you would've killed them. I know how much you despise the House of Elendil."  
"Oh yes."  
It was spring and the air was full of scents of flowers. The leaves on the trees were a bright, fresh green. The grass grew tall and thick. The sun played on meadows full of flowers.  
"Nice place," Khamul said.  
"Yes," Morion said. He sounded distracted, bothered, again. Khamul gritted her teeth and told herself not to ask him about it.  
"Follow me!" Khamul hissed suddenly, urging her horse off the road and into a lush meadow.  
"Where are you going?" Morion asked, following her.  
"I'll show you! Be quiet!"  
Khamul led him up over a hill and down into a thickly forested area. "Leave the horses!"   
Creeping forward, the two ringbearers came to the path. Not far away two riders were coming up the road. One was an old man dressed in gray with a wooden staff and a sword at his side. The other was short and riding a pony. He had curly brown hair, a round face, and a long dagger hung at his waist. Imagine such a thing wielding a sword! It almost made Khamul laugh.  
"The Halfling!" Morion gasped.  
"Yes, that's him," Khamul said. "That shortcut let us overtake them. We can ambush them now. You fight off Gandalf, and I'll kill the Halfling. Once I get the Ring we can run for it."  
"Excellent plan."  
Khamul tensed and started to draw her sword, ready to spring into action as soon as the riders came near. Ten seconds, she thought. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three…two…one… Now!  
Just as Khamul began to bolt from her hiding place, Morion gasped, clutching his heart.  
"Not now!" she hissed, shaking him. Gandalf and the Halfling were passing them by. The Ring was going to be lost!  
"Go!" Morion gasped through clenched teeth. "Get…the… Ring!"  
"What's wrong with you?"  
"Never mind…me!"  
It was either the Ring or Morgoth. There wasn't anything Khamul could do for him, but she doubted she could take on Gandalf and kill the Halfling at the same time.  
"Never mind," she muttered, sheathing her sword. "There'll be another time."  
"Morgoth doesn't…want us…to get…the Ring."  
"I figured that."  
As soon as the riders were well and gone, whatever was paining Morion let up.  
"You okay?" Khamul asked.  
"I'm fine."  
"I bet that'll happen again if we try to kill the Halfling again, won't it?"  
"Most likely."  
"What do we do now then?"  
"We return to Minas Morgul and see what ghastly damage has been wrought by whatever fool decided to take charge."  
"Or whatever's left of Minas Morgul," Khamul muttered.


	43. The Prophecy

"Congratulations! You didn't destroy the place!" Khamul yelled as she and Morion walked into the eerie green throne room of Minas Morgul. The place looked in reasonably good order. Surprising.  
"Thank you."  
Morion and Khamul froze as if their bodies had turned to stone.   
"I'm hearing things," Khamul hissed.  
"Then so am I," Morion whispered.  
"You seem surprised," Sauron said, standing up from the throne and walking over to his two ringbearers.  
"What are you doing here?" Khamul asked.  
"I might ask you that same question."  
"You told us to be here!"  
"Yes, and you have not been here for quite some time. Where have you been?"  
"You came all the way to Minas Morgul just to find out that we weren't here?"  
"Yes. Imagine my displeasure that my two strongest ringbearers were off gallivanting around Arda while Dol Guldur was threatened."  
"Erk." Khamul suddenly had a very good idea of what Gandalf had been up to when he'd sped away, leaving the dwarves alone. And no wonder Mirkwood had been so pleasant; Sauron had been gone.  
"They drove you from Dol Guldur?" Morion asked.  
"They approached," Sauron said. "I had no desire to be injured, unlikely though it was. I also had no desire to show my true power. Therefore, I came to Minas Morgul, expecting to find Morion presiding over the plans for war with Gondor, and Khamul sharpening her sword on the bones of Ithilien Rangers. Do I find that?" Silence. "I said, do I find that?"  
"No," Morion muttered.  
"Correct. I find no central leadership whatsoever. The only other marginally competent person is off rooting out the Rangers and trying to forge alliances with the Haradrim and Easterlings – not Vorea's forte. So who is in charge? Why, it appears no one is. Metima is growing an orchard, Yanta appears to have started a gambling ring with what seems to be all the orcs in the city, Ancalime is breeding long-haired cats, Aica has barricaded herself in her room, and Ringe is wandering about looking lost. Are these the people I gave rings to?"  
"No."  
"Again, correct. I am disappointed. Very disappointed indeed." Sauron paused, expecting a response. "What exactly is the excuse for this inexcusable behavior?"  
"I was heading back to Minas Morgul when I saw some goblins fighting with some elves," Khamul lied. "Turned out Morion was there, all crazy and possessed. Anyway…the elves won and we had to run from them. Took us a while to get back."  
"Where was this?"  
"Caradhras."  
Sauron's eyebrows shot into his hair. "Caradhras? Are you certain?"  
"Pretty sure, yeah. Haven't been on any other mountains that talk to me."  
"Is this true?" Sauron asked Morion.  
"I just told you," Khamul said.  
"My trust in you is not exactly strong."  
"It's true," Morion said.  
"Melkor possessed you again?"  
"Yes."  
"And the elves won?"  
Morion steeled himself. "Yes, they did."  
Sauron shrugged and began to pace. "I suppose I expected no less. Still…there was something important there."  
Khamul tensed. Had he sensed the Ring? But the Ring had been nowhere near Caradhras.  
"I do not know exactly what it was. Caradhras only hinted at it."  
"Hinted at what?"  
"Hinted that whatever Gandalf's greatest weapon was, it would show its face on Caradhras when the elf rescue party arrived for Elrond's wife. I expected them to win, but I do hope Gandalf's weapon was killed. The mountain implied it was very, very weak."  
Isildur's heir, Khamul thought. Yes, that would be him. That would be Gandalf's secret weapon. And I saved him.   
"Many were killed," Morion said. "I don't know how many, but most of the goblins and several elves as well. It was chaos there."  
"I will consult with the mountain," Sauron said. "Perhaps it can illuminate matters." He shot Khamul a dark glance, already suspecting that it had been a disaster, and already suspecting that she had had something to do with it.   
"Well, we scraped by on that one," Khamul muttered as Sauron left the room.  
"Barely," Morion agreed. He frowned. "This weapon of Gandalf's…you didn't see it, did you?"  
"No."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes."  
"All right," Morion muttered. He rubbed his head. "I've got a splitting headache."  
"Morgoth?"  
"Probably. I'll be in my office, getting things worked out, though I figure Sauron's already done that."  
"Sounds like things took a bad turn for a while."  
"I'm glad we don't know how bad."  
*  
There's nothing quite like coming to Minas Morgul to find a ringbearer pruning an apple tree while another runs after an ugly cat.   
Sauron shook his head to rid his mind of the ghastly visions. Whatever Khamul and Morion had been doing had been important. Morion was no fool and wouldn't have left Minas Morgul without a strong leader unless Morgoth had been in control of his mind. And as for Khamul…well, who knew what she was up to?  
Retreating to an abandoned portion of the fortress, Sauron took out the palantir of Minas Ithil. Out of its depths swirled the snowy, red-stained slopes of Caradhras.   
So the prophecy has come to pass, he thought. Khamul, or perhaps it was Morion, walked your road. Did the other as well?  
He did, came the response of the mountain.  
And who will be ridding you of the troublesome balrog? I find myself with time on my hands, so I can stop by anytime.  
You would be wise to keep Lungorthin here. Or perhaps not.  
Sauron ground his teeth. The mountain was talking in riddles again. What do you mean? he demanded.  
The balrog will prove a mighty deterrent for all travelers. When the time comes, if there is no guardian then perhaps certain defenses will fail that otherwise would have worked. Perhaps a goal will be accomplished that would hurt you greatly.  
So I should leave him there?  
Yet if you do, then when the time comes, it may happen that one will have to fight him.   
Any who fight a balrog die.  
Indeed.   
So there is no threat there. What happens if this fool fights the balrog?  
He will defeat it, but die in the attempt.  
Sauron smiled. So there is no reason to be concerned.  
Things will come to pass that otherwise would not have.   
Good things or bad?  
Things. Men will die who otherwise would not have. A king will be killed who would not have died in that place.  
A dead king. A fine thing, for there are no kings who are my servants. A king of the enemy. Do you mean king, as in lineage of kings? Do you, perhaps, mean the heir of Isildur?  
I may, Caradhras conceded.  
Then he will die at the end of the Third Age, for we both know that is to what you refer?  
He may.   
And all this hinges on whether or not Lungorthin guards Moria?  
Yes.  
Ah, such a weighty decision. If I kill him, rid you of this pest you despise, what then? The die has been cast by the events of the elves, goblins, and my own Nazgul. We must now play with the hands dealt us.   
If the balrog is killed, two Maiar will die, two kings will die, and a tower will fall.  
And if I let him live?  
Two Maiar will die, two kings will die, and a tower will fall.  
The exact same thing!  
Caradhras laughed. It was like an avalanche, but more terrifying. Sauron pitied any travelers on the treacherous mountain.   
Not the same thing, the mountain said. Two Maiar will die, but there are many Maiar in these lands. You, for one. Gandalf, Saruman, Radagast, and those in the east.  
We both know to whom you refer. Myself, Gandalf, or Saruman.   
There are many combinations of two that can be made with three.  
Do not speak in riddles!  
Perhaps I speak plainly. Perhaps you hear in riddles.  
What of the kings then? Sauron demanded.  
There are hundreds of kings in Arda.  
But you refer to the mighty!  
Do I? I may refer to a simple king of some small group of Easterlings. Or you may be right and I refer to the heir of Isildur, who still lives, if it interests you.  
Sauron cursed. Gandalf's weapon lived! He was sure of it! His Nazgul had failed him once again!  
And the tower? Caradhras asked eagerly. What think you of that?  
I think it is the Barad-dur. I think you have damned me either way.  
There are many towers in this world.  
But not as many as there are kings. Or Maiar for that matter.  
Indeed? There is the Barad-dur. There is your tower in Dol Guldur. There is Orthanc. There is Cirith Ungol.  
No one cares about Cirith Ungol.   
Caradhras laughed again, softer this time. There shall come a time when folk shall care about Cirith Ungol.  
Sauron jotted that down in his mental notes.   
There are the Towers of Teeth. There is the Tower of Ecthelion.  
Sauron hissed. It is the Tower of Ecthelion and the Barad-dur!  
Perhaps.  
In one, Ecthelion's tower falls. In the other, it is mine!  
Perhaps.  
Which one do I choose?  
Do not be paralyzed by doubt. Even if you choose what may be wrong, the future is not set in stone. Many, many things can happen. And that sword cuts both ways.  
"I will leave Lungorthin where he is," Sauron said.   
You will gain by that decision.  
For some reason, Caradhras's assurance did not ease Sauron's mind.


	44. The Seeing Stone

There was a curse, a rattling noise like someone trying to open a sticky drawer, and then a bang before the door was finally opened.  
"About time," Khamul said.  
"Oh, it's you," Aica said. "I thought you were someone else."  
"Sauron or Morion?"  
"Either one."  
"Looking into the palantir?"  
"Sh! Not so loud!" Aica glanced down the hallway. "The walls have ears."  
"I'll cut those ears off if they hear anything."  
Aica settled down a bit, but kept glancing around. "Why aren't you at the construction site?" she asked.  
"Building things isn't my strong point. Tearing them down is."  
"Then why aren't you making alliances with the Haradrim?"  
"Vorea offended them enough that we're going to have to wait a while until we can try and recruit them again."  
Aica snickered. Having the mighty general brought down a peg or two improved her mood vastly.   
"Anyway, why do you give a damn about where I am?" Khamul asked. "What have you seen in the palantir?"  
"Don't call it that!"  
"What should I call it then? What have you seen in the thing?"  
"Nothing important," Aica said.   
"Who's steward in Gondor?"  
"Turgon still. He's going to die soon though."  
"And…?"  
"His son, Ecthelion II, will replace him."  
"How about in the north? Anything happening there?"  
"No, not really. Pretty quiet up there."  
"The calm before the storm," Khamul muttered.   
"Huh?"  
"Sauron's rebuilding the Barad-dur."  
"Like I said, why aren't you at the construction site?"  
"Because it'll get done whether I'm there or not! Anyway, he's going to reveal himself for the whole world to see in a few days!"  
"Is that a problem?"  
"I don't fancy having the armies of Gondor knocking on the Morannon."  
Aica snickered again. "Funny how they rebuilt that, isn't it? Those little Gondorians did our work for us!"  
"Gondor's weak, but if they ally with Rohan…"  
"We don't have to worry about that," Aica said.  
"I thought you said you hadn't seen anything in the palantir," Khamul snapped. "Anything worth noting, that is."  
"I haven't. The king of Rohan is a cranky old miser named Fengel."  
"He's also old."  
"So?"  
"He'll die soon. What was his son's name again?"  
"Thengel."  
"And he lives where exactly?"  
"Well, right now he's living in Gondor."  
"Exactly."  
"So?"  
"So he's an ally of Gondor! He's the king we've been dreading! He'll raise his army and combine it with Turgon or Ecthelion's or whoever, and then he'll crush Mordor! Sauron could not have picked a worse time to declare his return!"  
"It's not bad, actually," Aica said.  
"What do you know?" Khamul demanded.  
"What?"  
"What do you know? You know something, I'm sure of it."  
"I don't know anything!"  
"You don't know anything about lying, that's for sure! What is it?"  
"Fine, fine, Saruman's been talking to Sauron about an alliance."  
Khamul's jaw dropped. "What?"  
"Saruman wants an alliance with Mordor because he doesn't really care for the whole 'goody little servant of the Valar' thing."  
"Saruman's betrayed Gandalf?"  
Aica grinned and nodded. "Which means Gandalf's doomed. He can't fight the head of his order and Sauron! Ha! They're all going to die!"  
"So while we crush Gondor, Saruman will destroy Rohan?"  
Aica nodded. "That's the plan exactly."  
"Can he do that?"  
"Who, Saruman? He's a Maia, I'm sure he can."  
"This is perfect," Khamul muttered. "Perfect. With whatever's left of Saruman's forces after he conquers Rohan, he can attack Gondor from the north while we catch it from the south. We'll obliterate them! How do you know this?" she demanded, whirling on Aica.  
Aica held up the palantir. "I saw it."  
"How?"  
"Saruman and Sauron were talking and I spied on it. They didn't even know I was there."  
"Do you always spy on Sauron when he uses the palantir?"  
Aica's eyes shifted around. "Not always…"  
She did. Of course she did. What was the point of having the master-stone if you couldn't spy on your master? "Tell me if anything happens," Khamul said.  
"Where are you going?" Aica asked as Khamul started to leave the room.  
"The palantir'll tell you. I'm going to the construction site."  
Aica sneered. So the great and mighty Khamul had nothing better to do with her time than watch orcs put mortar on bricks.   
"I've got to make sure they build it right," Khamul snapped, glaring at Aica,  
Aica shut her door and rolled her eyes. How glad she was that she had 'neglected' to mention Sauron's little chat with Caradhras. Aica had her own ideas about the Maiar, kings, and towers mentioned in the prophecy. Did she agree with Sauron's decision of letting Lungorthin live? Well…she didn't think it was bad. It would certainly take care of a lot of traffic across, or below, the Misty Mountains.  
As for the Maiar, it was either Gandalf and Saruman, or Saruman and Sauron. If he won, Sauron would kill Saruman, for he had no use for ambitious traitors. If Gandalf won, Saruman would also fall.  
The towers were easy. The Barad-dur would crumble almost as soon as it was built if Sauron lost, and the Tower of Ecthelion would fall before orc hordes if Minas Tirith – bastion of the West – was conquered.  
The kings, less so. If Sauron won, Isildur's heir and the king of Rohan would be dead. If Gandalf won…well, that was tricky. The Witch-King, Aica suspected, would meet his maker. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. As for the other, well, not all the dead would be on the loser's side. Perhaps the heir or Rohan's king would die as well.  
Aica didn't particularly want Sauron to reclaim the Ring, which would almost certainly end her spying on him and his affairs. But neither did she want it destroyed. After all, if the Ring was unmade, then what happened to her?


	45. Alliance

"Well… It is difficult."  
"What's so difficult?" Yanta snapped. "We're giving you boatloads of gold, all you have to do is give us your allegiance."  
The captain of the Corsairs of Umbar gave his lieutenant a skeptical glance as if to say, 'this is a ringbearer? Where did the Dark Lord find such creatures?'  
"You already fight Gondor, so why not fight for us?" Yanta asked.  
"We dislike having a lord rule over us."  
"Hey, hey, I get it. You like being independent. What do you think, Sauron's going to be breathing down your neck the whole time? Of course not! He doesn't care about ships and raids and stuff. He'll tell you 'take that harbor' or something and you do it in whatever way you want. And you get more gold than you'll know what to do with."  
The gold was a tempting offer. If there was one thing Corsairs could not resist, it was gold. But they prized their independence, their ability to do whatever they felt like whenever they felt like. To swear allegiance to the Dark Lord…  
"Right, let me put it this way," Yanta said. "Swear allegiance to Sauron or I'll kill everyone in this camp right now."  
Used to such threats by incompetent diplomats, the captain rolled his eyes. "Three thousand coins," he said.  
"Don't be an idiot! One thousand!"  
"Three thousand."  
"Two thousand."  
"Three thousand."  
"You're supposed to come down."  
The captain shrugged. "I feel that negotiations might be completed."  
"Fine, three thousand gold coins. Do we have an alliance now?"  
The captain grinned, exposing rotten teeth. "Oh yes." He glanced down at the roll of parchment and took out a knife. Slicing himself across the palm, he dipped a quill in the blood and scrawled his name.  
"Thanks," Yanta said, glancing at the signature. Oh, Sauron was going to be pleased.  
"We would like to demonstrate our excitement for this alliance," the captain said, standing up. "Please, follow me."  
Curious, Yanta followed the captain of the Corsairs out to where the rest of his sailors were camped.   
"There," the captain said, pointing to the rocky foothills of the Ash Mountains. "Do you see the ledge?"  
"The what?" Yanta muttered, squinting. The day was bright and it pained her eyes. No…wait, there was something. There was a ledge that jutted out over the camp, casting a long shadow. There was something on the ledge as well.  
"That has been here for more than three thousand years," the captain said, grinning. "The statue of Ar-Pharazon, last king of Numenor, to commemorate his subjugation of Sauron. Lord Sauron, I should say."  
"That's an old statue," Yanta said.  
The captain sighed. The gesture he was about to make was wasted on such an incompetent diplomat. If he hadn't known for certain she was one of the Nine, he'd have thought Sauron was deliberately insulting him.  
"Take it down," the captain told his lieutenant, who nodded and held up a red flag and began to wave it around.  
As they watched, sailors gathered far above them on the ledge attacked the statue with pick-axes and hammers. Stones hailed down, striking the ground and leaving large craters.  
It took more than an hour to bring down the statue. It fell to fervent applause from most of the camp, but Yanta looked less impressed.  
"That took a while," she said.  
"It is a statue insulting to the Dark Lord," the captain said.  
"I suppose so."  
"We have done him a great honor by tearing it down."  
"I'll mention it."  
The captain gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, telling himself not to hit the infuriating Nazgul.   
*  
"How much did you pay them?!"  
"Three thousand gold coins," Yanta said.  
"And how much did I tell you to give them? As a maximum?"  
"Er…"  
"Yes?"  
"A thousand," Yanta admitted.  
Sauron shook his head. Gondor was strengthening its borders. Poor Turgon's health had not been helped by the revelation that the Dark Lord was alive, well, and rebuilding his kingdom just across the river. Rohan was preparing for war as well, but Sauron had a secret weapon for that particular kingdom.  
"They wouldn't do anything for less than three thousand," Yanta protested.  
"They would have, if you were a better bargainer."  
"I threatened them even!"  
Sauron sighed and forced himself to stay calm. "Are you familiar with the Anduin River?"  
"Yeah, of course."  
"Good. Go up and down it and look for the Ring."  
"What?!"  
"Just do it."  
"Fine," Yanta muttered. "Oh, they also smashed some statue or another. Told me to mention it to you."  
"How nice of them," Sauron said. When he looked up and Yanta was still in the room, he raised an eyebrow.   
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"


	46. The Shadow Lengthens

"Nice view, huh?"  
"It is impressive," Morion agreed.   
They were standing on the top of the rebuilt Barad-dur. It was astonishing what you could accomplish when you had armies of orcs with nothing to do but build. Not to mention thousands of slaves who existed solely for feeding those armies.   
"Sauron's starting to look for the Ring."  
"He's looking in the Anduin," Khamul said.  
"But he's looking for it. He will find it. If not now, then soon."  
Khamul snorted. "He wouldn't think of looking in the Shire. He doesn't even know Halflings exist, I'll wager!"  
"Perhaps not, but he can learn. His tower is rebuilt, his armies are massing, Sauron is preparing for war. He has spent this entire age gathering his strength. The only thing missing is the Ring. He will stop at nothing to find it."  
"And what happens when the orcs come knocking on the Halfling's door?" Khamul asked. "If they do. I don't think Sauron even knows the Shire is there!"  
"They will take the Ring and we will be bound to Sauron forever. There will be no more wandering around wherever you please. There will be no free will. We will exist to serve Sauron, nothing more." Morion gasped and pressed a hand to his throat. "And Morgoth stirs. Imagine, a battle between the two Dark Lords."  
"Will it come to that?"  
"When the Ring is in Sauron's possession but not on his finger, Morgoth will attempt to take it for himself."  
"Through you."  
"Yes, through me. He could, I think, take over my mind and body this instant if it pleased him. He's waiting though."  
"Why?"  
"For the right time? I don't know."  
"What's the right time? When the Ring is found by an orc, when Gondor falls, when?"  
"I don't know," Morion hissed, looking more pained. "I don't know anything!"  
Khamul frowned in disgust. "Well, I'm going to get to the bottom of this."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Sauron sure isn't going to tell me anything, and Aica isn't giving out information either. So I'm going to have a look for myself."  
"A look at what?"  
"At the state of affairs in the world."  
Morion laughed. "You think you can do that by what, riding around?"  
"Yes," Khamul said. "And I'll have a better idea of what's going on than any of you! Even Sauron, I'll wager!"  
*  
"I beg your pardon, Master Bartender, but I am looking for someone."  
The bartender glanced at his customer. "And who might that be, sir?"  
"A ranger. Are there any in your fine establishment tonight?"  
"Why, there's one, sir. He's over in the corner. Rather young fellow, but still all gray and tired-lookin'."  
"My thanks." The man walked over to the corner and the young ranger. "Good evening… My apologies, I do not know your name."  
"They call me Strider," the ranger said.  
"Do they indeed? I cannot imagine why."  
"I walk fast, they say."  
"Fascinating. Do you know who I am?"  
"No, sir."  
"I am a friend of Master Elrond."  
Strider seemed interested. He pushed back his hood, revealing dark brown hair that would be getting flecks of gray in it quite soon. He had sharp gray eyes, rather like a Sindar, but this was quite clearly a Man.  
"My name is Gandalf the Grey. Have you heard of me?"  
"I have indeed. You are a Maia." Strider spoke in a quiet voice, occasionally glancing at the other patrons to make sure they weren't listening in.   
"Perhaps I am. There are other Maiar in this world though. Far more dangerous ones."  
"Sauron."  
"Yes, him."  
"He's rebuilding his stronghold in Mordor, rumors say."  
"The rumors are correct. We missed our chance to end him in Dol Guldur, so he has gone back to his ancient fortress. Fitting that that is where we will end him."  
"We will?"  
"You sound doubtful, young Strider. Never fear, we'll find some way to bring him down."  
"The Ring, perhaps?"  
Gandalf smiled. This was as clever a chieftain as any he'd met. "If we had it in our possession, that would be a certain way to make an end of him. Alas, it is lost. Or perhaps not alas. It is a good thing that Sauron does not have it."  
"Why are you talking to me about Sauron?"  
"I am a wanderer dressed in a shabby cloak, but I am also a Maia. You are a ranger dressed in weathered clothes, but you are also the last heir of Isildur."  
"What if I am?"  
"You are the last chieftain of the Dunedain."  
Strider frowned. "Has Master Elrond seen something? Am I going to be murdered?"  
"Unlikely. No, actually quite likely, but I don't think it will come to that. More likely you will die in battle. What I mean to say is that the end of the Third Age is coming. Sauron has rebuilt the Barad-dur and is looking for the Ring. Someone will find it. If it is us, then we must destroy it. If Sauron finds it, he will rule Arda until the end of time. If we destroy it, Sauron will fall."  
Strider sighed. "Destroying the One Ring of Sauron is no easy feat."  
"No, it is not. But we cannot let him regain it."  
"And you think I can somehow prevent this?"  
"I think that it would be wise of you to travel Middle-Earth and observe how the shadow grows longer."  
"My thoughts precisely. I am on my way to Rohan."  
Gandalf smiled. "And the court of King Thengel. He is glad to be on the throne, I'm sure. His father reigned for long enough."  
"He's very nearly an old man and he's only just got the crown. I will go to Gondor after that."  
"Gondor and Ecthelion II. What will you tell them of yourself?"  
"Nothing. I am a soldier, nothing more. Though I believe Ecthelion is a wise and good man, even wise and good men can be rash when confronted with the seizure of their power."  
"You are wise beyond your years, young Strider. Keep your eyes open, and glance behind at your back every now and then. It wouldn't do to find a knife there."


	47. Hallucinations

The leaves crunched under the horse's steps. September had come and was on its way out, leaving a bitter sting in the air and colorful leaves on trees. The Shire looked – if it was possible – even more beautiful in the fall.  
Khamul looked the simple traveler in dangerous times with a dark green cloak, leather armor over chainmail, and knee-high boots. Her sword would not get a second glance unless you knew your swords very well. After all, this one had been made a thousand years ago. Or perhaps it was more. Khamul couldn't remember when she'd gotten this one.  
It was, however, unusual to see a Haradrim, and a woman at that, riding through the Shire. Halflings came out of their houses, sometimes with their entire families, and stared, watching until she passed by.  
Not wanting to seem like she was looking for anything, or indeed on any important business, Khamul rode through the Shire at a leisurely pace, stopping at inns at night though she could have easily rode through the night and the next day as well.  
"My good man!" she called out, spotting a Halfling raking his lawn.  
"Yes, sir?" he asked, glancing up. "Oh, begging your pardon, ma'am."  
"I'm looking for Hobbiton. Is it much further?"  
"Oh, just over the next few hills, ma'am. Very close."  
"Will I be there by nightfall?"  
"Easily, ma'am. And if you're looking for a place to stay, then The Green Dragon's the best place around. Fine ale, fine food, and a fine bed. Best inn in Hobbiton."  
"Thank you." Morion had hypothesized that the Halfling lived in Hobbiton. Where better to get information about him than from a local inn?  
The party was in full swing when Khamul arrived. It was a nice place, she conceded, though the doorway was a bit low.  
"Don't get many Big Folk in these parts," the bartender said as Khamul walked in. "What'll you have?"  
"Ale," Khamul said. She glanced over at a ring of Halflings clapping their hands as two of their number did a dance on the table.   
"We get a bit wild now and then," the bartender said, sliding her a glass.   
"So I see."  
"You mustn't think we aren't respectable. We are. Work hard, then party hard, that's what I always say."  
"A wise proverb."  
The bartender grinned. "So what brings a lady like you all the way up here?"  
"I've heard of the splendor of the Shire and wanted to see it for myself."  
"Fair enough, fair enough. What do you think?"  
"It's very beautiful. Especially in September with the leaves turning."  
"You're too kind."  
"I was curious though, perhaps you can answer a question of mine."  
"Of course, of course."  
"I've always wanted to meet a famous Halfling," Khamul said. "There's a legend in my land that a Halfling around here once slew a dragon. Is that true? Does he still live?"  
The bartender's expression soured. "You'd be talking about Bilbo Baggins," he said. "He went off on an adventure, right enough. A dragon got killed, and he came back with treasure enough to buy the Shire, Hobbiton and all."  
"You don't seem to care for him."  
"He's…well, he's…he's un-Hobbitlike. Going off on adventures, imagine what his dear parents would say!" The bartender shook his head. "Not normal behavior for a Hobbit, going off on adventures. He was just fine, too, until that meddling wizard came around."  
"Who is that?"  
"Gandalf the Grey. Bilbo was a good, quiet Hobbit, and then Gandalf put all these ideas of adventures into his head."  
"What a shame."  
The bartender nodded. "He was a good Hobbit, Bilbo was. He's gone strange in the head now. And he's so old!"  
"What is the typical lifespan of a Halfling?"  
"Oh, eighty or ninety, I suppose. We get up to a hundred now and then. The Old Took was one hundred and thirty when he died. Bilbo's seventy-eight, but still going strong."  
"Impressive," Khamul said. "And he isn't frail or weak?"  
"No, no, on the contrary he still goes out for a ride now and then. He's more fit than most Hobbits you see. And he doesn't look nearly a hundred either. More like fifty, I'd say. Remarkably preserved. They say," The bartender leaned close, "the wizard cast a spell on him."  
"Do they indeed?"  
"They do. And I have it on the best authority he can turn himself invisible."  
"Indeed!"  
"Oh yes. You can see his shadow in the window, then a Sackville-Baggins knocks on the door and he vanishes! Just vanishes! Doesn't duck or run away, but vanishes! Remarkable, isn't it?"  
"Oh, very remarkable. Very remarkable indeed."  
Another customer came to the counter and the bartender hurried to fill his order. Khamul, meanwhile, slipped out of The Green Dragon and started down the road. The only thing she was missing was where this Baggins lived.  
It was growing dark, the sun being no more than a red sliver on the horizon. All around Khamul were little hills with round wooden things on them. Paths, dirt or stepping-stones, led up to them, with flower-filled gardens surrounding them. They looked like houses, but how was that possible? A hollowed-out hill? What sort of madman would live in something like that?  
As Khamul watched, a staggering Halfling opened the round door and stumbled inside. She caught only a fleeting glimpse of the inside of the dwelling. It looked remarkably comfortable, though small for a full-grown human. There were candles on finely polished tables, elegant rugs, and comfortable chairs.  
Then the door shut, and Khamul was once again looking at the plain door in the side of a hill.  
She kept riding until such a crowd of Halflings was gathered around her that she couldn't move.  
"What's going on?" she snapped at the nearest one, a fat, half-drunk looking fellow with a mug full of ale.  
"We're celebrating!" he bellowed, then belched loudly.  
"I can see that. What are you celebrating?"  
"The birthday of good old Frodo Baggins!"  
"Is he the mayor here or something?"  
The Halfling gave her an odd look. "I'm the mayor here."  
"Oh, well, congratulations. Who's this Frodo fellow then?"  
"Only the finest deputy mayor any Hobbit could hope for!" He laughed, then the laughter died and he looked intently at Khamul. "You mean you've never heard of Frodo Baggins? Good old Frodo? Good old Nine-Fingered Frodo?"  
"Did it get bitten off?" Khamul asked caustically, wishing this old codger would get out of her way.  
"Ah! You do know the story! That's good, or else I'd be sorely disappointed! I was hoping our friends in the south knew the tale!"  
"You're about as close to war with the south as you've ever been in your existence. I seriously doubt anyone down there considers you a friend."  
"Elessar's made some great friends there."  
"Who's Elessar? One of your drunk friends?" The name sounded elvish to Khamul, but Halflings didn't live all that far from the elves.  
The Halfling laughed uproariously. "Did you hear her?" he asked his friends. "'Who's Elessar?' she said!"  
The other Halflings shrieked with laughter. "Good one, Sam!" they congratulated, slapping the Halfling on the back.  
"You're the funniest one of the Big Folk I've met in all my days," Sam said. "Come down from that horse and have a drink."  
"Wait…Frodo Baggins, did you say?" Khamul asked. Baggins… Might this Frodo fellow be related to Bilbo?  
"That's the one. I was his gardener once. Don't need to tell you about that though, ha, ha! I'm sure you've heard the story about 'eavesdropping' and all that! Ha, ha!"  
The other Halflings laughed all the louder. "Tell it again, Sam!" one yelled.   
"Oh, yes, tell it again!" another begged.  
"Maybe later," Sam said. "Come on, friend. We've got room for one more."  
"Is Frodo related to Bilbo Baggins by any chance?" Khamul asked.  
Sam laughed so hard he fell over.   
"I'll take that as a yes," Khamul said. "Do all your folk get this drunk when they throw a party? And where's this Frodo anyway? I'd like to meet him."  
Sam grew sober at once. "You didn't hear?" he asked quietly.  
"Is he dead?"  
"He went…" Sam gestured to the western horizon.  
"I see he died. Sorry about that. It sounds like you were close."  
"We were together at the end of all things," Sam whispered, a misty look coming into his eyes. "I remember the fire…the rocks…the horrible roar…and his finger, poor Mr. Frodo's finger…"  
"Sounds like you had a bit of bad luck. Shame, that."  
Sam was studying her. "You really don't know, do you?" he said.  
"Know what?"  
"Mr. Frodo. Elessar. You don't know about any of them."  
"I don't know what you're talking about, so it can't be very important at all."  
"Who're you talking to, Sam?" another, slightly younger, Halfling dashed over. "Hello, madam, name's Peregrin, though my friends call me Pippin."  
"Why don't you just keep your Halfling legends to yourself," Khamul snapped, ignoring the young Halfling. "Don't assume that other folk know them."  
"She doesn't know who Elessar is," Sam hissed to Pippin.  
"'Course she does. She's from Harad."  
"What does that have to do with anything?" Khamul demanded. "There is nothing going on in Harad!"  
"What's going on?" yet another Halfling asked, walking over. "What's up, Pip?"  
"She doesn't know who Elessar is, Merry," Sam said.  
"I don't care about your stupid Halflings!" Khamul shouted.  
"She must know who Theoden was though," Merry said.   
"I don't know and I don't care!"  
"What about Faramir?" Pippin asked. "He's a good fellow!"  
"And Eowyn?" Merry asked. "Best woman in the world, I'd say!" A female Halfling heard this and gave Merry a very sour look.  
"Tell you what," Sam said. "If you wouldn't mind, we've got a couple of Big Folk living nearby. Why don't you come with us and they'll explain things to you?"  
"I don't need things explained to me!" Khamul shrieked. "You're mad! You're all mad! With your Frodos and your Elessars and your Faramirs! I don't care, do you hear me? I don't care!"  
Khamul suddenly realized she was shouting to an empty street.   
Glancing around frantically, Khamul saw no Halflings. There were no streamers tossed over the trees. There was no free-flowing ale. There were no lanterns hanging from boughs. The street was empty and dark. The trees were hidden in shadow. The only light came from the windows of a nearby hill.  
Feeling dazed and confused, Khamul rode toward the light. Was that a dream? she wondered. Was it all some sort of weird hallucination?   
"Are you the fellow who was shouting?"   
Khamul glanced around and saw a stout Halfling standing near the gate to the hill with the lights. "Yes," she said. "I suppose that was me."  
"I would appreciate it if you kept it down. We're having a bit of a celebration."  
Khamul laughed weakly. "For who?"  
"My newborn cousin."  
"Look a bit old to have a newborn cousin."  
"Ah, he's removed a few times…I don't really know. Anyway, keep it down. Little Frodo needs to get his sleep."  
"Little Frodo," Khamul said. She laughed again. "Little Nine-Fingered Frodo."  
"Eh?"  
"Never mind, never mind. It was a dream…a mad, mad dream."  
Bilbo Baggins shook his head and returned to his cozy hill where the party was dying down and little Frodo Baggins was settling down to sleep in his mother's arms.  
"I think I must be going mad," Khamul decided. All thoughts of Bilbo and the Ring had flown out of her head. She rode like a madwoman out of the Shire, not caring who heard her at this hour of the night.   
"I'll just get back to Minas Morgul," she muttered. "Just get back there…Sauron'll know what to do."


	48. Beginning of the End

"I was wondering when you would get back," Sauron said. "Did you learn anything useful on your little trip?"  
"I don't know," Khamul said.  
"You look like you have seen a ghost."  
"I don't know."  
"Can you say something else besides 'I don't know'?"  
"I think…I think I saw the future."  
Sauron frowned. "I doubt you are gifted with foresight, Khamul. Even in the unlikely circumstance that you are, I seriously doubt it would show up so abruptly now."  
"I was riding along a road…and then there were all these people."  
"Yes, people do tend to be on roads."  
"No, no. The people were drinking and laughing, and I started talking to one, and he just started talking about all this gibberish."  
"For example…?"  
"All these people I didn't know about. Good old Frodo Baggins. Stuff like that. He seemed to think they were important. I don't understand it."  
"Would you perhaps have been in the Shire?"  
"Yes."  
"Halflings are strange, stupid creatures," Sauron said. "No doubt this one was very confused or very drunk. Perhaps both."  
"But then I looked around and they were all gone," Khamul said. "Everything. The lanterns, the streamers, the people. And I met this one old Halfling, and he was talking about Frodo being born. It was so strange."  
"I believe I can enlighten you."  
"You can?" For once, Khamul would gladly welcome Sauron's help.  
"This Frodo is an important man in the Shire, so they are celebrating his son, or relative's, birthday. The feasters appeared to vanish because you simply did not notice them leave. Halflings can move very quickly when they wish to."  
Sauron didn't understand. He hadn't been there. Khamul had been there, with Sam and Pippin and Merry. And then they had all been gone. Vanished. Like smoke. No, faster than smoke. They'd vanished like they'd been hallucinations, or dreams.  
"What's been going on here?" Khamul asked at last, giving up on any hope that Sauron would be able to help her. "Anything good?"  
"I would ask someone else about that," Sauron said.  
That wasn't good. "Who should I ask?"  
"Perhaps Morion, if the green liquid has stopped coming out of his mouth."  
"Oh, lovely," Khamul groaned. She hurried up to the Witch-King's room to find him in bed, leaning over a bucket. "You all right?" she asked.  
"How was your excursion?" Morion asked, glancing up. He was looking paler and paler. Perhaps his blood had turned white.  
"I saw the future but Sauron doesn't believe me."  
"You did?"  
"I think so…oh, he's got me doubting myself now."  
"What was the future?"  
"There's an important Halfling named Frodo who dies. And there's a fellow named Elessar who's very important. And Faramir and Theoden and Eowyn."  
Morion frowned. "I've heard of Theoden."  
"You have?"  
"He's the son of King Thengel of Rohan. A good man, people say. Very kind and just."  
"Could the Halflings have been talking about someone else?"  
"Probably. Theoden isn't an uncommon name, but it isn't widely used either."  
"What about Eowyn?"  
"Reasonably common. It's also Rohirric. Theoden and Eowyn are probably related."  
"One of the Halflings said she was the best woman in the world."  
Morion smiled. "It sounds like he's in love. Except I don't know of a single Halfling ever visiting Rohan."  
"Maybe in the future they do."  
"How do you know this was the future? We might not have heard of this Elessar. He could be a big man in the Shire."  
"They vanished," Khamul said. "Disappeared. One moment there were all these drunken Halflings, the next, they were gone. And then I heard that Frodo was just being born."  
"Frodo might be a common name."  
"It probably is. That's what Sauron said."  
"He might be right."  
Khamul shrugged. She glared at Morion. "What's wrong with you anyway? Vomiting green stuff?"  
Morion nodded. "Sauron says it's the beginning of the conversion process."  
"The what?"  
"Morgoth is beginning to take over my body. The ring's not able to hold him back anymore. He's starting to break through."  
"It's time then?"  
"Or close to it." Morion sighed. "I know he wants to rule Arda, but I don't know what else he'll do. And I won't be there to see it."  
"You aren't going to die, are you?"  
"No, but I might as well. I'll never see you again, I suppose."  
Did that mean something? Was Morion more upset about not seeing Khamul again than he was about, say, Ancalime?   
Before Khamul could ask a question, Morion hiccuped and puked into the bucket. It was, indeed, quite green.  
"How long before you're him?" Khamul asked when Morion'd finished.  
"It can take a long time," Morion said. "Up to a few decades."  
"Is it reversible?"  
"No."  
"And it's definitely going to happen?"   
"Yes."  
It's not reversible and it's going to happen no matter what I do, Khamul thought. Morion is going to be lost to me forever. Forever. And even if I die, he'll still be trapped. I'm never going to see him again.  
"Are you…crying?" Morion asked.  
"No!" Khamul snapped. "It's the light." She blinked a few times and successfully banished the tears.  
"Oh, the light."  
"Yes, it's the light! Of course it's the light! Why would I be crying?"  
"You might be…sad, that I am going to effectively die."  
"Why would I be sad?" Khamul laughed.  
Morion shrugged but didn't say anything. He puked again into the bucket.  
"Um…" Khamul wasn't sure what to say. She'd thought she had forever to get around to this, to say what needed to be said. Now she was running out of time fast. "Um, I was wondering…"  
"Yes?" Morion asked, wiping a bit of green off his mouth.  
"I…"  
The door opened. "Sauron says if you're not busy that you should help Ringe get the wargs under control," Metima said.   
"Did he specify a time?" Khamul growled.  
"Um…probably around now. The wargs are getting restless, and Ringe can't fend them off forever."  
"All right," Khamul muttered. The moment had been lost anyway. And she certainly wasn't going to talk to Morion in front of Metima.   
"We can talk again some time later," Morion said.  
"Yeah, we can," Khamul agreed. "Feel better."


	49. Umbar in Distress

They never did talk again. Khamul was always busy with something or other, and Morion was either dreadfully ill or off with Vorea, terrorizing the Ithilien rangers. Whether it was Sauron's cruel doing, or just bad luck, they never seemed to be alone together.  
"You're lurking again," Khamul snapped, opening the door to her room only to find Aica outside. And wherever Aica was, the palantir couldn't be far away.  
"It's going to be a busy year," the seventh ringbearer commented.  
"Is it?"  
"Oh, it definitely is."  
"Do you have anything to tell me or has your mind been completely consumed by that thing?"  
Aica shot Khamul a vicious glare. "The Captain of Haven in Umbar requests your presence."  
"Who's that?"  
"He's in charge of the city."  
"And he's got a palantir as well?"  
"No, he sent a letter. He wants a representative of Sauron to come with all speed to the city."  
"Why?"  
"He didn't say."  
"It could be a trap then."  
"Does it matter? None of us can die."  
"And why, for that matter, does it have to be me?" Khamul asked. "You could send Yanta again."  
"Sauron's pretty much banished her after the disaster with the Corsairs. He's not sending her within a league of Umbar ever again."  
"Then Vorea."  
"Vorea is training the army."  
"Did Sauron specifically tell you to get me, or do you just want me out of the picture for a while?"  
"Why would I want that?" Aica asked, all innocence.  
"I don't know, but I don't like it."'  
"Why don't you just go down there, see what he wants, and then come back? It won't take too long."  
"What have you seen?" Khamul hissed.  
"I haven't seen anything!"  
"Sure you haven't! What is it?"  
"Nothing!"  
"Like I believe that." Khamul waited several moments for Aica to relent, but the seventh ringbearer was being quite silent. "Fine. I'll see what this Captain of Haven wants."  
Aica watched from the wall above the gate of Minas Morgul as Khamul set out. When she was sure the Haradrim was gone, she hurried to Morion's office.  
"So good to see you," she said, the words like poison in her mouth.  
"What do you want?" Morion asked, hardly glancing up.  
"I would like to do a bit of traveling. Intelligence gathering, that sort of thing."  
Morion was instantly suspicious. "What kind of intelligence gathering?"  
"Spying on our enemies to the north. We know what Gondor's up to, but we really don't know what's going on up in what used to be Arnor."  
"Why can't your spies do that?"  
"Well…they've been disappearing, so I think they might've been found out."  
Morion couldn't argue with Aica, though he would've liked to. "Fine," he said.   
"I'm taking Ringe as well."  
"Fine. Just don't disappear for years and years."  
"Oh, you don't need to worry about me," Aica said. "I'll be back soon."  
"Why do I have a terrible feeling about this?" Morion muttered once Aica had left. He should've refused her request, but it sounded reasonable. Perhaps Aica had changed. No, of course she hadn't. But what did she want in the north?  
*  
The Poros Road into Harad was in desperate need of repair. Due to the constant war between the orcs and rangers, it could never be worked on, at least, not without all the workmen getting killed. And so Khamul had to go slower than she would've liked to avoid having her horse break its leg. What would that do to an immortal horse? Probably it'd just heal up, but until then she'd have to walk.  
The beautiful forests of Ithilien faded into endless sand and dust. The road faded as well, buried under tons of sand.   
The glory of the Haradrim had long vanished. All that was left was ruined monuments and crumbling buildings. The glory of the Numenoreans had faded as well. Their statues were broken and their towns were hollow shells or just foundations.   
And up the great sand dune Khamul went. The same one that she had stood on with a force of a hundred thousand Variags and Haradrim behind her. The same one she had stood on while looking down on the slaughtered bodies of thousands of her people.  
Umbar had changed greatly in those thousand years. It was much bigger now, but it looked the worse for wear. Parts of the city were burning, as were a great deal of the ships in its harbor.  
"What's been going on here?" Khamul muttered, urging her horse down the dune and into the city.  
The streets were bustling with soldiers all running around while civilians tried to put out the fires that still raged. It looked as if Umbar was under attack, but where was the enemy?  
"Hey! You there!" Khamul yelled at an officer.   
"What do you want, Haradrim?" the officer demanded. He looked like a Gondorian, but Umbar and Gondor had been at war since Castamir. Ah, he was one of the treacherous Gondorians who'd sided with the Usurper.  
"What's going on here?"  
"Why do you care?"  
"Because your Captain of Haven asked for me to come!"  
The officer frowned, then gasped. "You? A servant of Lord Sauron?"  
"Not a servant! I'm his right hand!" Or left hand, at least. He couldn't get by without me.   
"Ah, ah, I see. Very well…we're having a small problem right now…"  
"What's going on?"  
"Gondor sent a bunch of fighters to destroy us!"  
"An army?"  
"No…it was only fifty or so…"  
"Fifty warriors destroyed Umbar?!"  
"We've got most of them killed," the officer snapped. "There are only ten or so left. They're hiding out in there." He gestured to a large building. "The headquarters of the merchant guilds."  
"Well, I'll go take them out for you, shall I?" Khamul muttered, kicking her horse and heading off toward the building.  
The building was surrounded by a veritable sea of soldiers. It took some arguing to get through them, but they were relieved to have someone else go fight Gondor's soldiers.  
"Just be careful," one advised. "War ain't no place for a lady."  
Khamul rolled her eyes.  
"They killed over a hundred men, those ten," another whispered in horror.   
"You want them dead or alive?" Khamul asked.  
"One of 'em alive, if you please, ma'am."  
"I can do that," Khamul said. She jumped off her horse and walked into the building.  
It was dark, far too dark for such a bright day outside despite the smoke. It was also messy. Desks had been overturned, papers were scattered everywhere. As Khamul walked, she kicked a goblet, which went spinning, scattering what was left of its contents across the floor.  
"Anyone there?" Khamul yelled. Her voice echoed.  
There was a whizzing noise and Khamul ducked. A white-fletched arrow smacked into the wall behind her and quivered.  
"I guess so," she muttered, drawing her sword.  
"Get out while you still can!" someone called.   
"That was unfortunate," Khamul hissed, cautiously making her way toward the voice. Another arrow flew over her head, and one grazed her leg. Khamul marked the positions the arrows came from. Of course, their owners were probably already moving.  
A glimmer of light struck a man's eyes, the only part of him that stood out in the darkness. Khamul grinned and jumped forward, swinging her sword.  
The man hadn't realized his eyes had betrayed him, but he could move damn fast. Not fast enough though. Khamul's sword caught him on the right shoulder. It wasn't an instantly fatal wound, but it was enough to send him to the ground.  
"This is the best of Gondor?" Khamul muttered, putting her sword through the man's heart. "I'm disappointed."  
An arrow came so close to her head it was off by less than a hair.  
Ducking, Khamul moved along the edge of the room. It was darker here, all the better to hide her. It was also where the rangers – she had no doubt they were part of that elite group – were hiding. It was where she would be if she were them.   
Pulling her black hood up over her head, Khamul doubted very much if a person even a few feet away could see her in all this darkness and gloom.  
The next ranger she met was looking everywhere but behind him. Sad then, that the sword that ended his life came from behind his heart. He gasped and crumpled to the ground. Not that much noise. That was good. Maybe she could take them all out without the others realizing it.  
Two down, eight to go, Khamul thought.  
Another two fell the same way. The fifth and sixth were together, scanning the room with eyes that could barely see in the dark.  
"There he is!" one yelled. The other rangers must've been cringing. They couldn't do anything but wait for the other two to fall. Any arrows they shot were just as likely to hit their friends as Khamul.  
"Wrong gender," Khamul muttered, slashing at the first ranger. He parried it, but then tripped on his friend's leg. The two were tangled up for a minute, and a minute was all it took.  
Wiping some of the blood off on one of the dead men's cloaks, Khamul glanced around. Four more…and they'd all be somewhere close by. Oh yes. Maybe they thought they could catch the intruder by surprise.  
The seventh did, at least. He was sneaking along, a long dagger in his hand. He couldn't see in the dark though. Or he couldn't see Khamul at least.   
One hand quickly covered his mouth, and the other shoved the sword through his body. He gasped and blood streamed through Khamul's fingers, but he fell without a sound.  
Three more. Two to kill, one to capture.  
"For Gondor!"  
Well, this one had been a bit stealthier than his friends, Khamul had to give him credit. But then he had to go and bungle it by shouting.  
Khamul met his sword with her own. The clash echoed and echoed in the room.   
The fighting continued for a minute. Every second Khamul delayed, the man's friends were getting closer. Unless she wanted to be fighting off three rangers, she had to end this now.  
Drawing a dagger with her other hand, Khamul parried the man's sword, but then struck at him with her dagger. He hadn't been expecting that. And these were the finest of Gondor?  
Two more to go.  
"Come out, creature of Sauron!"   
Khamul whirled around. There, in the center of the room where there was a little light, were the last two rangers. One had a sword, the other was armed with a bow, the arrow on the string.   
"Come out and face us!"  
Stupid man, Khamul thought. Reaching down, she picked up a heavy goblet and took aim.  
"Urk!" The man with the bow fell to the ground, his skull broken open by the goblet.  
"I think my aim's as good as his," Khamul said, stepping out into the light. "So, nine dead. The Captain wants one alive."  
"If I am taken alive, it will be over your rotting corpse," the last ranger spat. "Come on, creature. Let us fight!"  
"I've never been one to back down from a fight!" Khamul laughed.  
He was good. Khamul tried her dagger trick again, but he spun away and even managed to kick it out of her hand.   
"Who taught you this?" Khamul asked, trying to distract him but also to learn who had made this man the master swordsman he was.  
"Many people," the ranger replied. He was not an unattractive member of his species. His brown hair was about shoulder-length, and his gray eyes almost looked elven.  
"Traveling the land and learning as you go, eh?"  
"Yes, actually."  
"What got you into this mess here?"  
"I despise Sauron," the ranger spat.   
"So you're going to die in some futile attempt to stop him? It's pointless, you know. He doesn't even need Umbar."  
"If he ever does, I have stopped that."  
Khamul laughed. "You really think so? Even if you killed the Captain of Haven, another would just take his place! It's pointless! Completely pointless!"  
"It is not pointless," the ranger hissed. "My father did not die in vain, and neither will I!"  
"Sure you won't," Khamul sneered. In his fury, the ranger had made a mistake. His sword went spinning away into the darkness.   
The ranger stood perfectly still, Khamul's sword at his throat. "Kill me," he said.  
"I told them I'd take one alive. You can come in now!" she yelled toward the door.   
"May I at least know the name of my captor?"  
"Sure thing." Khamul pushed up her hood. "Khamul, lieutenant to – "  
"The Witch-King of Angmar," the ranger finished, a sad smile on his face. "You are a Nazgul, second greatest of the Nine."  
"How do you know all that?" Khamul asked. Wait…there was something familiar about this ranger. Where had she seen him before?  
The soldiers were beginning to spill in. They marveled when they found the dead bodies of the rangers. They marveled even more when they saw the live one.  
"I believe you'd know me as Estel," the ranger said as the soldiers bound his hands.   
"Firin?" Khamul gasped.


	50. A Boating Accident

"Why are we going back here?"  
"Stop whining," Aica snapped. "Look, I know what I'm doing."  
"What are we doing though?" Ringe asked.  
"We're following this river."  
"Why are we following the river though?"  
"Shut up!"  
Ringe sighed. Aica had dragged him from the warg pits to accompany her on a journey to the north. He wasn't complaining about that, certainly not after the wargs had used him as a chew toy, but he was curious about the purpose.   
"We're going into the Shire because there's someone there who needs to die."  
That Ringe could understand. He had been worried that it was something else, something worse. "Who are we going to kill?" he asked.  
"Some kid named Frodo."  
"Why?"  
Aica rolled her eyes. "Because he's a threat to Sauron."  
"How do you know? Did Sauron tell you?"  
"Stop asking questions!" Aica leaned over, almost lost her balance, but managed to smack Ringe on the side of the head.   
Sauron had said nothing about Frodo. Sauron did not even know Frodo existed. And if he did, he wouldn't've cared. However, Aica did not content herself to merely spying on Gondor and her enemies. She also kept tabs on the other ringbearers. Including – especially – Khamul. She hadn't seen anything about her trip to the Shire, but she had been eavesdropping on her conversation with Morion the old-fashioned way with an ear to the door. So, there was a future with a guy named Frodo who was important? Well, not anymore.  
"This is what we're going to do," she said. "We're going to follow this river, see? And when we see a Halfling we're going to ask him about Frodo. He'll say something about where he lives, we find him, we kill him. End of story."  
Ringe nodded. Simple plan, simple solution. It was enough for him to handle.  
"There's one!" Aica hissed, spotting a colorfully-dressed Halfling down the road. "Hello, friend!" she yelled.  
"Ah, good morning!" the Halfling said, doffing his hat.  
"Tell me, friend, where can I find a Halfling named Frodo?"  
"Frodo? Do you mean Frodo Baggins?"  
"Uhhh…yes." Would've been nice of Khamul to mention Frodo's last name.  
"Why, I think his family's gone for a nice boating trip on the Brandywine."  
"The what?"  
"The river here." The Halfling gestured to the placid river nearby. "Fine day for a bit of boating, I think."  
"Where exactly along the river?" Aica asked.  
"Up about half a mile, I believe. I passed them not too long ago. I told them to be careful. Neither Drogo nor Primula knows how to swim."  
"Oh dear," Aica said. "I hope they're careful."  
"They'll be fine," the Halfling said. "Good morning." He walked away, whistling a cheerful tune to himself.  
"We'll have to wait until they're off the river," Ringe said.  
"Don't be an idiot!" Aica hissed. "All we have to do is push them in! You heard him! They can't swim!"  
The ringbearers rode for about a half mile before they came to the remnants of a picnic. There was a bit of food still on the grass, which was flattened as if it had been sat on recently.  
"There they are!" Aica chortled, spotting a raft on the river. It bobbed along, hardly moving. On it were two Halflings, both rather fat, and gazing and talking to each other to the exclusion of all else.  
"There're only two," Ringe said.  
"Yeah, Frodo and Primula."  
"I thought the other Halfling said Dro –"  
"Shut up, Ringe! You're a complete idiot!"  
Ringe sighed. An argument with his sister always ended in disaster. He was certain the Halfling had said 'Drogo' though. Ah well. Aica would realize her mistake eventually.  
"Can you swim?" she asked.  
"No."  
"What? What use are you then?"  
"Can you?" Ringe asked.  
"Not very well," Aica muttered. "But better than you!"  
"What are we going to do then? They're out in the middle of the river!"  
"It doesn't look very deep," Aica said. "We'll wade out there and pull them in. I want it to look like an accident."  
"Like they fell in?"  
"Exactly. And because they're so short they won't be able to walk to shore. Then they'll drown."  
"All right." Ringe couldn't find fault with that plan, even if it did seem to exclude the entire purpose of why they came to the Shire in the first place.  
The two ringbearers jumped off their horses and waded into the water. It was cold for such a fine spring day. Cold even to Aica with her ring-protected skin.  
"Oh, hello," Primula said, noticing the ringbearers for the first time. "Are you lost?"  
"Bree's thata way," Drogo said, gesturing to the east. "You do have to cross the Brandywine to get there, that's true, but there's a bridge not far away."  
"We're not going to Bree," Aica said.   
"Should we offer them a ride?" Primula whispered to her husband.  
"I don't know…" Drogo muttered.  
"You get Primula," Aica hissed to Ringe. Her hand snaked out, grabbing Drogo by the ankle and pulling him off the raft.  
"What are you doing?!" Primula shrieked. "He can't swim!"  
"And neither can you!"   
Ringe grabbed Primula and dragged her into the river. "What now?" he asked Aica, keeping the Halfling's head underwater.  
"Make sure she's dead," Aica said. "I don't want either of these two to have a lucky accident."  
"Um, Aica?"  
"What?"  
"I really don't think that's Frodo."  
"Shut up! Of course it is! Who else would it be?"  
Ringe sighed. Primula had stopped struggling, which made it easier to hold her, but the current seemed to be getting stronger and he had no desire to get washed away.  
"There, mine's dead," Aica said, releasing Drogo and walking back toward shore.  
"I suppose she is as well," Ringe said, letting Primula go. She wobbled between sinking and floating before bobbing up to the surface, her dead eyes filled with shock.  
"Well then, that future's never going to come to pass," Aica said with a grin, surveying the two dead Halflings.  
"What?"  
"Never mind. We've got to get back to Minas Morgul before Morion gets any more suspicious than he already is."


	51. Cerin Amroth

"I knew Lord Sauron would send a mighty warrior, but I did not think it would be one of the Nine," the Captain of the Haven – a fat, sycophantic man – said, sipping a glass of wine.  
"Shows how much he values you," Khamul said. Or how much Aica wanted me out of her way.  
"They caused a lot of destruction, those fifty," the Captain said. "So good that they're all dead."  
"Except for one."  
"Yes, that one. I think I'll have a nice little public execution." The Captain frowned. "What do you think, drawing and quartering? Or maybe burning at the stake. I'm not sure…"  
"Why not just cut off his head and be done with it?" Khamul snapped. She wasn't about to save the Heir of Isildur again, but she wasn't going to sit by and watch him be tortured either.  
"Oh, no, that would never do. I need a spectacle! These men terrorized Umbar! It will take a century for us to recover! No, no, I need something spectacular!"  
Disgusted, Khamul stormed out of the room. The home – no, palace – of the Captain was as ostentatious as he was. The tiles were finest marble, the walls were embedded with gems in stunning patterns, the curtains were the most delicate silks. Rather than looking wealthy and cultured, the Captain only managed to look gaudy and tasteless. Too much gold. Gold everywhere. On the ceiling, on the walls…and were those gold flecks in the marble? Probably.  
"You!" Khamul snapped, spotting a guard.  
The guard jumped to attention, shaking slightly. It wasn't everyday one of the Nine talked to you. "Yes, sir!"  
"Where's the prisoner?"  
"The prisoner, sir?"  
"The one from Gondor! The one who slaughtered your countrymen!"  
"Oh, that one, sir. In the dungeons, sir."  
"Where are the dungeons?"  
"Down the stairs, sir."  
"And the stairs are…?" Khamul hissed, rapidly losing patience.  
"Right over here, sir." The guard hurried across the hall and opened a gilded door. "Down these, sir. There are more guards down below."  
The stairs to the dungeons were plain stone, the way lit by simple torches in even simpler brackets nailed to the wall. It was a relieving departure from the gold and jewel display above.  
There were, rather surprisingly, not very many cells. Only three, unless there were other dungeons. Perhaps the Captain preferred to execute his prisoners as soon as he got them.   
Two guards were sitting at a small table near the cells, playing dice.  
"Which one's the Gondorian in?" Khamul demanded.  
"First cell, sir," a guard said. "Why?"  
"I want to talk to him."  
"Oh, you don't need to bother. He won't say anything. We already tried."  
"I am Sauron's lieutenant. I think I can get him to say something!"  
"Yes, sir, sorry, sir." The guard jumped up and hurriedly opened the cell door. "There you go, sir. Do what you want, sir."  
Khamul slammed the door behind her as she walked in.  
"I'm beginning to wonder why you're on his side," Estel gasped. He was chained to the wall and looked like he'd just got done with a little 'questioning'. He was covered in whiplashes, bruises were beginning to blossom all over his body, and it looked to Khamul like there was a broken rib or two.  
"What are you talking about?" she snapped.  
"First you killed all those goblins, and now you're treating Corsairs like you'd like to stick a knife in them."  
"I would."  
"So why are you on his side?"  
"Because I don't like the other side much either. Besides, I can live forever this way."  
"Is that so great?"  
No, it wasn't. Not when Morion was nothing but a shell with Morgoth working the controls. Honestly, Khamul would rather be a mortal with Morion rather than live forever and ever without him. And she'd rather be dead than live in a world where Sauron or Morgoth ruled supreme.  
"Yes, it's fantastic," Khamul snapped. "Now what in the names of the Valar are you doing here?"  
"I seem to have been captured by yourself," Estel said. "They're going to put me to death, and that will be the end of Isildur's heirs."  
"Ah, you know who you are now?"  
"Yes. Elrond told me a while ago."  
"And then you decided to go off and get yourself killed? You don't care much for your lineage?"  
"I'm fighting Sauron."  
"By dying a pointless, painful death."  
"I'm not afraid of pain."  
"You will be."  
"Why are you here?" Estel asked.  
"I'm here because the Captain wanted me to sort out a little problem. Apparently that was you and your friends."  
"Are they all dead?"  
"Yes."  
Estel sighed and closed his eyes. "I thought they must be, but I hoped…"  
"And you're going to join them." Khamul shook her head. "What a pointless death! What a wasted life! You could've been great! Caradhras thought so, I'm sure of it. Why else would it have worked so hard to save you?"  
"It tried to kill me!"  
"No, it tried to almost kill you. It meant for me to find and save you. It wanted you alive. And now you're going to die."   
"You don't want me to die," Estel said with a faint smile. "All this talk… I thought you were just another servant of Sauron, gloating over my death. But you care. You don't want me to die."  
"Shut up!" Khamul snapped. "I'm upset that I went to all that trouble to save your life before, and now you've wasted it!"  
"But what could you do, even if you wanted to?" Estel muttered. "You'd have to kill the guards…fight your way out of Umbar with an injured man in tow… A tall order, even for a ringbearer."  
"If I wanted to, I could do it," Khamul said.  
"And what would Sauron say? He wouldn't be pleased that his lieutenant saved Isildur's heir from certain death."  
"He doesn't even know who you are! You're just some Gondorian bastard!"  
"Actually, I'm Thorongil," Estel said. "It was something Caradhras said. I thought it would make a good name."  
"You remember all that?"  
"Every bit of it."  
"Huh," Khamul muttered.   
The cell door opened and a burly man with a scar across his face walked in. Behind him the two guards stumbled in, lugging a brazier full of hot coals.   
"Are you the torturer?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes," the man grunted. He pulled out a long spike and stuck it in the coals. "Want to watch?"  
"Not really." Khamul kicked over the coals, knocking them onto the guards, who shrieked in agony. Then she grabbed the spike and plunged it into the torturer's eye. It came out the other side with a spray of blood and brains.  
"How strange that the greatest asset in the war against Sauron is Sauron's own lieutenant," Estel commented.  
"Oh shut up," Khamul muttered, yanking out the spike and attacking Estel's manacles with it. "This isn't going to become a pattern."  
"I believe the guards might have the key."  
"Oh. Right."  
Seconds later they were running up the stairs, Estel leaning heavily on Khamul. Not wanting to face guards unarmed, Estel had snatched a dagger from one of the dead guards.   
"Wait, wait! Where are you going?" The blubbery Captain of Haven was running down the hallway, shouting and waving his arms.  
"And here come the guards," Khamul muttered, spotting half a dozen guards sprinting toward them.  
"I'll take care of the Captain."  
"What are you talking about? You can hardly stand!"  
"I'll be fine," Estel promised.  
Khamul only had to kill two guards before the rest ran off. They were not thrilled about fighting a Nazgul, especially one who had just turned on her own side.  
"How are you doing?" she asked Estel.  
"Just fine, though we should leave before a more competent commander appears," Estel said.  
Khamul glanced over at the Captain of Haven. Estel's dagger was protruding from his throat. "Nice throw," she commented.  
The two made it to the stables without incident, where Khamul's horse was waiting for them almost impatiently.  
"Should I drop you off in Gondor?" Khamul asked as they raced through the streets. People scrambled to get out of their way, knocking over stalls and stands in their haste.   
News had not yet reached the other guards of Khamul's treason, and so the gates were open and the guards even waved.  
"What a bunch of idiots," Khamul muttered.  
"Not Gondor, no," Estel said at last. "It's time to leave Gondor. I've served King Thengel in Rohan, Steward Ecthelion in Gondor. I've even been to Harad, Khamul. You're right, it's a beautiful place."  
"How far did you go?"  
"Nearly all the way to Khand. Through the sands, and then into the jungles."  
"Spot any mumakil?"  
"A few actually. They're majestic beasts, but I wouldn't want to get near their tusks."  
Khamul chuckled. "Neither would I. So, if not Gondor, then where?"  
"Lorien?"  
Khamul nearly fell off her horse. "Lorien? As in Lothlorien? Home of Galadriel and Celeborn?"  
"…Yes."  
"You do realize that I'm a Nazgul?"  
"Yes, I do. You could just drop me off at the border."  
"What do you want to go to Lorien for? I thought you hated your family!"  
Estel looked shocked. "I love my family!"  
"Oh, yes, I forgot. They just hate you. Did they ever bother you after the Caradhras incident?"  
"Actually, no. My brothers were quite upset, but Elrond quieted them down."  
Khamul grinned. "Glad to hear it. So what do you want to go to Lorien for?"  
"No reason."  
"You just want me to risk life and limb for it."  
"Well, there's this woman…"  
Khamul sighed. "There always is. What's her name?"  
"Arwen."  
Khamul almost fell off her horse again. "You're in love with Elrond's daughter?!"  
"Yes, I am!" Estel exclaimed. "No one believes me! Not even her! She laughed when I told her I was in love with her! I was only twenty then though. She'll love me now…I know it."  
Khamul shook her head. "You're mad. Elrond's daughter! If he hated you when you were his foster son, then what'll he think about you now?"  
"He never hated me."  
"I beg to differ."  
Estel sighed. "Just let me off at the closest to Lorien you can go."  
"Oh no, I want to see this."  
"You'll go there then?"  
"Certainly. Which part?"  
"Cerin Amroth?"  
"Where's that?"  
"Uhh…the heart of Lorien."  
Khamul sighed. "I'll see what I can do."  
They rode night and day until the golden trees of Lorien came into view. "This is going to be tricky," Khamul muttered, surveying the guarded realm.  
"Take the path by the river," Estel advised. "It's the least well-guarded."  
"You know this place?"  
"A bit."  
"You really need to consider this carefully," Khamul said as they rode alongside the stream. "Even if Arwen does agree to marry you, Elrond's not going to like that one bit."  
"I know. She's immortal, you know. If she marries me, a mortal, then she'll have to give up her immortality. I don't want to ask her to do that, but I love her. I love her so much…"  
"Elrond's really not going to like that."  
"What can he do? He can't stop us."  
"Oh yes he can. He's her father, remember? He has to give his consent to the marriage."  
"We could just sneak off and wed…"  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "You think a proper elf like Arwen's going to do that? No way."  
"What would Elrond ask me for? Money, maybe? But he doesn't need it."  
In her long years, Khamul had picked up a legend or two, though she certainly wasn't as well-read as Elrond or even Estel. "Beren and Luthien," she said. "Isn't that what this is? You're Beren, Elrond's Thingol, and Arwen's Luthien."  
"Arwen has been compared to Luthien before."  
"Exactly. Elrond hates you, so he sets you an impossible task. What would that be?"  
"A palantir? There aren't any silmarils left."  
Khamul could have bashed her brains out against a tree. Estel was smarter than she was, she knew it, so why was he being so dense? "You're Isildur's heir!" she hissed. "What do you think Elrond wants?"  
Estel's eyes widened in horror. "No! Gondor would never accept me as king!"  
"Yes, that's what he wants! He wants you to reclaim the thrones of Gondor and Arnor! He won't let you marry Arwen until you do!"  
"I can't do that though! I'd be a terrible king!"  
"You'd be a great king! What are you talking about?"  
"But…but…"  
"That's what he's going to say," Khamul said. "If you want Arwen, you have to be king of both kingdoms. Just like Elendil was."  
"No, no," Estel was muttering, shaking his head.  
"Then again, maybe Arwen will just refuse. Hey, where are we now?"  
"Right over there!" Estel said, gesturing to a mound near a tall mallorn tree. "Put the horse in the shadows and watch. She's always there at twilight!"  
Khamul slunk into the shadows and watched as Estel jumped off the horse and sprinted for the mound. "Arwen!" he called.  
A figure there spun around. "Aragorn?" she whispered.  
How many names did this man have? Khamul wondered. Estel, Thorongil, and now Aragorn. That was an official sounding name though. It had the royal ar- in it at least.   
Estel fell to his knees before Arwen and clasped her hands. "I've come from Umbar, or what's left of Umbar."  
A little overdramatic, but it wasn't bad.  
"What happened to your face?" Arwen gasped. "Are you hurt?"  
"I'm fine. I need to ask you something."  
"Yes?"  
"Will you marry me?"  
There was a very long pause.   
"What?" Arwen whispered.  
"I love you. I love you like Beren loved Luthien. Will you marry me?"  
"I…I… My father will never allow it."  
"I'll do anything to marry you, Arwen! I'll steal Earendil's silmaril for you!"  
"Aragorn…when you first saw me…I said I didn't love you."  
"Y-yes?" Estel whispered. Khamul could hear his heart breaking.  
"But I was lying. Father said you wouldn't be a good match for me. That I should marry another elf lord or just go to the Havens. But I won't! I love you, Aragorn! Yes, I will marry you!"   
Grinning ear to ear, Estel stood up and kissed Arwen. They stood there for a while, holding each other's hands, kissing in the moonlight.  
Arwen broke the kiss. "I need to leave," she said. "Galadriel will be wondering where I am." She kissed him again briefly and then ran off.  
"She's going to marry me!" Estel exclaimed, running back to Khamul.  
"You're going to stay here then?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes, I suppose I have to. Maybe Elrond will be fine with it."  
"I doubt it."  
"But maybe he will. Oh, this is fantastic! She loves me!"  
"Good luck to you. By the way, your real name's Aragorn?"  
"Huh? Oh, yes, it is. Estel's what they called me when I was young, and then Thorongil. Caradhras guessed both of them."  
"I'm not surprised," Khamul said. "What else did it say?"  
Estel frowned. "One last thing. It doesn't really make sense, but Thorongil didn't make sense either for a long time."  
"What was that?"  
"It said 'Estel…Thorongil…Elessar'." Estel shrugged. "I don't suppose I'll see you again, Khamul."  
"Not helping you, no," Khamul said. "Especially not if you try to reclaim the thrones. Good luck with that though. The stewards won't want to give up their power and they have claws of iron."  
"You don't have to help Sauron."  
"I do, because I want to. I'm going to leave before you try to persuade me again. And remember, next time I won't show any mercy."  
"There won't be a next time," Estel said.  
Khamul rode her horse out of Lorien and surprisingly encountered no elven archers nor sentinels. Perhaps Galadriel had seen her and realized she wasn't a threat. At least, not right now.  
"What have I done this time?" Khamul muttered, shaking her head. Not only had she rescued Isildur's heir, again, but she had saved the man who would assume the name of Elessar, perhaps when he reclaimed the throne of Gondor. Of course, that was providing the vision came true. It seemed far more likely that Estel would die before he so much as got near Gondor again.


	52. The End

"You're back," Morion said without relish.  
"So I am," Aica said.  
"Learn anything up north?"  
"Some things."  
"Such as…?"  
"Theoden's king in Rohan. Thengel died earlier this year."  
"Theoden," Morion muttered. "A wise man, I've heard."  
"Ecthelion invited him over for tea."  
"I seriously doubt he invited him over for tea. A formal dinner, perhaps." Morion chuckled. "It's something royalty does when a new leader ascends the throne. You haven't noticed it?"  
"Seems a waste of time."  
"It's diplomacy. Of course, I won't be meeting Theoden. Imagine! The Witch-King inviting the King of Rohan to Minas Morgul to discuss politics over roasted pheasant!" Morion nearly giggled.  
Aica narrowed her eyes. Morion was not usually in this good of a mood. Or if he was, he hid it very well. "You all right?" she asked.  
"Yes, I'm fine. Why?'  
"I've told you probably a hundred times about a new king here or there. You just nod and mutter something. What's different about Theoden?"  
"No idea." He's part of the future Khamul saw though, Morion thought. He's important to the future, which means the time is coming. The time for the end of the Third Age, the time of Morgoth.  
"All right," Aica said suspiciously. "Are your eyes supposed to do that?"  
"Do what?"  
"Ooze blood."  
Morion's right hand flew to his eye. It came away coated in blood. "How is this possible?" he muttered. Finding a mirror, he saw that both eyes were dripping blood. "How long has this been going on?"  
"Since you started talking about Theoden."  
"It doesn't hurt," Morion muttered. "But it's just…dripping blood."  
Aica fled the room, hurrying toward Sauron's study. She hoped the Dark Lord was spending his time in Minas Morgul rather than the Barad-dur.   
"Yes?" Sauron asked, glancing up as Aica threw the door open.  
"Morion's got blood dripping out of his eyes."  
"I see."  
"Is it fatal?"  
"To your regret, no."  
"Oh," Aica said, quite disappointed. "Does it mean Morgoth's taking over his mind?"  
"Yes."  
"Oh." She sounded quite a bit more excited.   
"There is little time left," Sauron said.   
"You don't sound overly concerned."  
"Why should I be? The rings of the Nine keep Melkor in check. He cannot harm me, and he is truly the greatest asset on a battlefield. We cannot lose with him on our side."  
"What's going on?" Khamul asked, both her and Vorea following the sound of raised voices.   
"Melkor is growing more successful in his continued attempts to take over Morion's body and mind," Sauron said.  
"You don't sound alarmed."  
"As I told Aica, the ring will keep Melkor in check. He is a great ally."  
"If he's on our side, which he isn't!"  
Sauron glanced at the Haradrim. "You do not think Melkor is on our side?"  
"Of course not! He wants the Ring for himself!"  
"Of course he does. But he is wise enough to know that the only way he will be able to get the Ring is once it is already in our possession. Our enemies can do great harm with it, but once it is in some orc's hand, then the game changes. Until then, Melkor and I will fight side by side. After it has entered Mordor, we will fight against each other. The winner will rule the world."  
"You seem quite unconcerned," Vorea commented.  
"I have nothing to fear from a Vala who has been locked beyond the Door of Night."  
"Yet you yourself have suffered exile in recent years."  
"I will win, Vorea," Sauron said. "Content yourself with that knowledge."  
"Yes, Lord Sauron."  
"It's mad," Khamul muttered. "How long does Morion have?"  
"Again, I would say a decade. He's shown remarkable willpower so far, so he may even manage twenty years. That's not unreasonable."  
"But it's inevitable?"  
"Yes."  
Khamul nodded. Inevitable. Well, she'd just have to make the most of the time then, wouldn't she?  
"Interesting," Sauron commented as Khamul hurried out.   
"What's wrong with you now?" Khamul snapped, storming into Morion's office. The Witch-King was still attempting paperwork while blood streamed out of his eyes.   
"Am I signing these right?" he asked, holding up one paper. There were a few drops of blood on it, and Morion's signature was almost illegible.  
"Yeah, it looks fine," Khamul said. "What's with your eyes?"  
"Morgoth."  
"Figured. So…does it hurt?"  
"Strangely enough, no. Aica pointed it out, and that was the first I knew of it."  
"Oh. You and Aica spending a lot of time together?"  
Morion looked up. He looked ghastly with his pale skin and red blood. "I despise Aica," he said. "And even if I didn't, she wants my head on a platter. Are you…jealous?"  
"What are you talking about?" Khamul snapped. "Of course not. Don't be an idiot."  
"Do you want something then? Or are you just here to stare at my eyes?"  
Khamul shifted her feet and glanced at the floor. "Morion…we've known each other for thousands of years. It's hard to know a person that long and not…not…"  
"Yes?"  
"Not get…feelings for them."  
Morion watched with an interested expression. He wasn't smiling, which Khamul found reassuring.  
Khamul took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say is…is…"  
"You love me," Morion finished.  
"…Yes."  
Morion nodded. "It's taken you almost four thousand years to tell me that."  
"So?"   
"So I love you too."  
Khamul's world spun for a moment. She felt like she'd gone deaf. Perhaps she'd only heard what she wanted to hear. "What?"  
"I love you."  
"What about…what about…"  
"Ringe?" Morion frowned. "That was nothing, though I still care for him. Really. I liked him, and we used each other to escape our oppressors – Morgoth and Aica – but there was nothing beneath that."  
Khamul was skeptical. "I don't believe you."  
"Of course you don't. You don't want this to work," Morion said.   
"I do!"  
"Then you have to trust me!"  
"I do," Khamul snarled.   
"I'm not –"  
"Shut up and kiss me." Khamul pulled Morion to his feet and put her hand behind his head, intending to pull it toward her.   
Blood began to trickle out of Morion's mouth.  
"No…no…" he muttered. His eyes started to roll, the red becoming darker and darker.  
"Oh Valar," Khamul muttered. "What's wrong with you now?"  
"Get…out," Morion gasped. "He's… He's…"  
"NO! You can't surrender to him now! Dammit, Morion! I love you, you miserable idiot! Stand up and fight!"  
Morion collapsed to the floor. He stopped breathing for a moment, but then sat up.  
"Morion?" Khamul whispered.  
"I'd prefer Lord Melkor," Morgoth said, wiping blood off his face.  
"What happened to Morion?"  
"He's safe and sound in the Land of the Lost, trapped there forever."  
"You weren't supposed to take over his mind for another twenty years!"  
Morgoth shrugged. "I took advantage of a fit of emotional distress, what can I say?"  
A fit of emotional distress that Khamul had caused. Why had Morion been in emotional distress though? Did he not really love her? No, those words had been true. She was sure of it.  
Or she could have just been imagining it.  
"Where is Sauron?" Morgoth asked. He didn't look a thing like Morion despite their sharing the same body. Morgoth was crueler and colder.  
"Down the hall," Khamul muttered.   
"Has he rebuilt the Barad-dur?"  
"Yeah."  
"Not a very enthusiastic servant of the Dark Lord, are you?"  
"Shut up."  
Morgoth raised an eyebrow. "I think I will let that one go because of my unusually generous mood," he said. "But watch your mouth."  
Khamul rolled her eyes, albeit when Morgoth wasn't looking.  
"Damn it," she hissed when the door closed behind Morgoth. Morion was gone. Completely gone. Forever. And he wasn't ever coming back.  
"I wish I could've kissed the bastard," Khamul muttered.


	53. Revenge

"Your eyes are looking much better," Sauron commented as the Witch-King walked into his study and sat down across from him. "I don't know what the fools were talking about."  
"Perhaps your eyes are the ones that are failing, my apprentice."  
Sauron started and stared at the man who looked just like Morion, but clearly wasn't. "Melkor?" he whispered.  
"Lord Melkor to you, you miserable wretch."  
"H-how did this happen?"  
"Very simply. Morion's emotions got all tangled up, his mind wavered, and I took advantage of the moment to hurl him out of his body and take over myself. The gray land is very boring compared to Arda. It has been far, far too long since I walked the earth."  
"This is perhaps not the best time," Sauron said. "Things are being set in motion that a power struggle between the two of us could ruin. You do want the One Ring, don't you?"  
"As much – perhaps even more – than you do."  
"Then why would you risk it all?"  
Melkor held up his hand. The ring sparkled there. "There is very little I can do when I wear this, and the One is not in my hand."  
Sauron smiled slowly. "You wear one of the Nine."  
"Indeed."  
"You know that if I wished, I could manipulate my Nazgul like puppets."  
"You would find considerable difficulty with some. Which is why, I suspect, you don't do it."  
Sauron focused on the ring on his former master's hand. Melkor frowned, but he obeyed Sauron's telepathic command and stood up.  
"The first Dark Lord finds himself enslaved to the second," Sauron whispered, a thrill of excitement in his voice.  
Melkor sighed. "You are going to waste precious time debasing me while you could be out searching for the Ring?"  
"It is what you would do in my place."  
"You're right there," Melkor muttered.  
Sauron led the way into the bedchamber he used when staying at Minas Morgul. Melkor followed, not led by the command of the ring, but of his own will. This was going to be humiliating enough without being led around like a dog by his apprentice.  
"You cannot imagine how long I've waited for this," Sauron whispered, removing his master's clothing. "Ever since you first took me in Angband…"  
Melkor smiled at the memory. "You screamed too much," he said. He reached out and ran a hand through Sauron's hair. "You are as fair as you ever were. Which only goes to show you are still as vain."  
"Speaking of vanity." Sauron pressed a hand on Melkor's chest. The first Dark Lord gasped in shock as ice ran through his veins. When the sensation faded, he found himself in his old body. It was not much different from Morion's.  
"How kind of you," he sneered. "If I still had the little slave's body, you would get far less pleasure than with my own. How wonderful for you! How splendid! To have your old master, teacher, tormenter as a slave."  
"You are perceptive," Sauron said, pushing Melkor onto the bed. "It is a shame that perception came only after you lost the war."  
Melkor growled and briefly struggled before surrendering to the ring's power. What was the point of further embarrassing himself?  
"Here you are," he whispered, "Sauron the Great, king of Mordor, the Lord of the Rings. Here you are, planning a war, rallying armies, allocating rations. Such mundane work for a king."  
"It must be done."  
"Oh, it must indeed. You learned that from me, for I had you do that work. And you are also doing my work, planning the war, making allies, betraying those same allies."  
"Your point? Your voice is beginning to grate on me."  
"While you run the war, while your orcs fight it, the Nazgul must search for the Ring. If the Ring is lost, you must win on strength of arms. If the Ring is found by your enemies, they could topple you. And if you find the Ring, you will win. The Ring decides everything."  
"You are correct, and the Nazgul will search for it. And they will find it for me."  
"Ah, but I am one of the Nazgul now, am I not? The greatest and most powerful. And if I find the Ring, be warned, so-called Lord Sauron, I will overthrow you and conquer Arda. I will exact a terrible revenge for this."  
"But you will not find the Ring," Sauron whispered. "I will. And you will be mine forever."  
"I will cut out your liver and eat it before your very eyes. I will –"  
Sauron laughed and pressed a finger to Melkor's lips. "Silence," he said.   
Much to the first Dark Lord's fury, when he opened his mouth, no sounds came out. He contented himself with baring his fangs.  
"How long I have waited for this," Sauron murmured, twining his fingers in Melkor's silky hair.  
*  
"My lord?" The young Maia bowed before his king. The Dark Lord, the fallen Vala, the King of Arda, was standing near a desk, glancing over some papers. He was dressed in a black silk dressing gown, which exposed much of his ivory chest.   
"Ah, Sauron," Melkor whispered, walking over to where his spy stood.  
A twinge of fear ran through the Maia's body, who ignored it. His master was powerful, and he should be afraid of him. But to let that fear show… Melkor disliked cowardice.  
"You called for me, my lord."  
"So I did." The Dark Lord was close to Sauron now. The Maia wanted to take a step back. Every instinct screamed for him to run. He didn't.  
Melkor's finger traced Sauron's face, running lightly over the flesh. Sauron wanted to flinch away from the touch, but he gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. Melkor's finger lingered on the hardened muscle.  
"Scared?" he asked.  
"No, my lord."  
"You picked a fair form. I am…curious as to the reasons why."  
"I find this form pleasing, my lord."  
"Why? You could have been a hulking warrior, a walking wall. A fierce monster with talons and razor teeth."  
"I can be many things, my lord. I am a shapeshifter."  
"Yet you spend much of your time as this, or a wolf."  
"People…"  
"Yes?"  
"People say more things to a fair man than to a foul one."  
Melkor chuckled. "And yet you have a heart as foul as a cesspit. I expect you learn many things, yes? A finer spy I have never had. And neither a fairer one…" The long fingers began to remove Sauron's clothing.  
"My lord…"  
"Did you not come to Angband for power? I can give you that as my apprentice, not my spy. Why should a Maia of your caliber be forced to skulk and hide in woods, listening for some scrap of news? There are orcs to do that work."  
"My lord…"  
"Do you accept?"  
"Yes, my lord," Sauron whispered. "I have a question though."  
Melkor smiled. "Ask it."  
"You have a fair form as well, my lord. Why did you pick it?"  
"People tell me things," Melkor whispered. "People believe my lies. Beauty hides deception. Never forget that, my apprentice. People will never believe an ugly man, but they will follow a beautiful man to the slaughterhouse."  
"You are beautiful, my lord."   
Melkor smiled and watched appreciatively as Sauron removed the rest of his clothes and began to untie the sash on Melkor's dressing gown.   
"You are so careful, my apprentice," Melkor purred. "So gentle, so tender."  
Sauron looked up at him. His eyes were soft and full of love.  
Melkor's lip curled into a sneer. "You love me?" he asked.  
"Yes, my lord."  
"You would die for me?"  
"Yes, my lord! In an instant!"  
He'd been intending to toy with the Maia. He was far more attractive than the balrogs, after all, and much less surly. Melkor had expected the Maia to accept his attentions and think nothing of them. Not this love business. Not this weak, pathetic love.  
A single strike from his hand sent Sauron tumbling to the ground. He lay there stunned for a moment before looking up, hurt and betrayal in his eyes.  
"My lord?" he whispered.  
Snarling, Melkor seized Sauron by the hair and threw him on the bed. "Love," he spat. "That is not a worthy emotion for my apprentice!"  
Terror taking over, Sauron cowered on the bed. "Please, my lord," he whimpered. "Please don't hurt me."  
"Hurt you? I'm going to do worse than that." Pinning his apprentice's wrists in a vice-like grip above his head, Melkor shoved the shaking legs apart. "Didn't you want this?" he asked as Sauron trembled and shivered.  
"N-no, my lord. Not like t-this."  
"Coward," Melkor sneered, thrusting into the tense body.  
Sauron shrieked and writhed like a man stabbed.  
"Coward! You miserable coward! And you think you're worthy enough to be my apprentice?"  
"M-my lord! Please! Stop!"  
The screams were beginning to wear on Melkor's nerves. Screaming was for the torture chamber, not the bedchamber.   
"Shut up," the Dark Lord snarled, striking Sauron across the face until the Maia finally stopped screaming. He stopped moving as well, and Melkor wondered if he'd broken his neck. No harm done if he had. It'd heal up soon enough.  
Sauron moaned a bit and twitched. He didn't scream again until Melkor rolled off of him.   
"Do you know your place?" Melkor hissed in his ear. He was amused to see tears in the corners of Sauron's eyes.   
"Y-yes, my lord," Sauron whispered.  
"There is no room for love there."  
*  
"Cruel bastard," Sauron spat, glaring at Melkor with pure hate in his eyes. Not a trace of love there. Not even a trace.   
Melkor grinned. He'd done his work well.   
"It is your turn now," Sauron hissed.  
Melkor smiled. He'd be hearing those screams again.  
Surprisingly, Sauron did not scream. He sucked in his breath and then gasped, but he did not scream.  
"I am a Vala," Melkor said, the silence spell broken by Sauron's pain. "You are always forgetting that."  
"So…hot!"  
"I am made of the stuff of the stars. Did you think I would be as cold as my heart?"  
Sauron gritted his teeth but continued.  
"I was wrong, all those years ago," Melkor said with a laugh. "You are no coward. All this pain, just to humiliate me." He shifted under the Maia. "Well, I suppose the least I can do is writhe like a bitch." He moaned softly and pulled Sauron closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick Sauron's eyes. "Tears."  
"Shut. Up," Sauron gasped.   
Time seemed to stand still for a moment as they both gasped in ecstasy. Sauron pulled away then, gasping.  
"Bravery deserves a fine reward," Melkor whispered, his fingers tracing designs on Sauron's chest, glistening with sweat. "My mouth is much less hot, I assure you."  
Sauron nodded and collapsed on the bed.   
"I win again," Melkor murmured to himself as he ducked between his apprentice's legs.  
*  
"Hey, Sauron!"  
"Go away, Aica," Sauron muttered the next morning. He felt like he'd been dropped in Mt. Doom.  
"Just a bit of news, if you're interested."  
"I'm not."  
Aica opened the door and glanced inside, snickering when she saw Melkor. She didn't recognize him as Melkor, nor as her former superior, but she found it amusing nonetheless.   
"I said go away," Sauron growled.  
"Khamul's gone."  
"What? Again?"  
"She said she was going north."  
"North? What for?"  
"No idea."


	54. An Excellent Name

Lying bastards. All of them. Every last one of them. Especially Sauron. Telling her that Morion had twenty years left. No, no, Morion was the bigger lying bastard. Telling her he loved her and then giving up the ghost. Bastard.  
Khamul kicked the horse and it sped up, rocketing across the land, hoping that it might dislodge its rider if it went faster.  
There was a cold wind whistling through the land. Far too cold, even for winter.   
Where did the winds come from? That was an interesting question. Why not find the answer?  
So Khamul followed the wind. It grew colder and colder, icier and icier. It seemed to freeze the marrow in her bones. But it also seemed to freeze away the memories of Morion.   
"I should've known," Khamul muttered, stopping at the base of what was undoubtedly generating the wind. "What do you want now?" she snapped.  
Caradhras loomed above her, covered completely in snow except for the most sheer of its bloody sides.  
"You have lost someone dear to you. I am sorry."  
"You're a mountain, you don't have feelings."  
"Nevertheless, you have long been in my prophecies. And you have seen prophecies of your own."  
"What do you mean? The little Halfling feast? It didn't matter."  
"Ah, but it did. And I can make sure that it will never occur."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I shall make this journey of yours the most profitable. Leave this place at once lest you find yourself caught in another war of the dwarves and orcs."  
"They're still fighting?" Khamul asked with a sigh.  
"One dared to attempt to resettle Khazad-Dum. The balrog was not pleased." Caradhras sounded excited when it spoke of the balrog.  
"It's time's coming, isn't it?" Khamul guessed. "Sooner or later it's going to be obliterated."  
"I eagerly await that time, though other world events intrigue me now."  
"You started off with the balrog, and now you've moved to everything else."  
"Go to the windswept plains of Rohan. Ride across the Riddermark."  
"And I'll find another lost and lonely child who is actually the son of Theoden, right?"  
Caradhras chuckled. A small avalanche broke out on one of its sides. "No. You will find no king, nor great lord. You will find someone of no importance in the great histories of the world. Someone much as yourself."  
"I'm important!" Khamul yelled. "If I hadn't been born, Isildur's heir would be dead!" Dammit. That wasn't something to be proud of.  
"Indeed. Still, it may be profitable for you to go there."  
"What next?"  
"Go south. Not far. The Dead Marshes hold more than faces of corpses. You will find there – if it has not moved on – something you long thought lost."  
"The Ring?"  
Caradhras refused to say more on the matter. "We shall not meet again until the war," it said. "We shall not again meet until the balrog has been destroyed atop Zirak-zigil."  
That was another of the mountains, though Khamul couldn't remember which one. "Rohan then," she muttered. "I'll go there."  
Caradhras's talk of a war unnerved Khamul, but she'd handled wars before. Besides, this one couldn't be as bad as the Last Alliance.  
"Stupid mountain," Khamul grumbled. "What does it know? And it isn't sorry either, whatever it said. It's just a mountain. It's just a damn mountain."  
However, Khamul wanted to get to Rohan quite badly. And quite fast. Whatever was happening there, it was going to be well worth her time. She was sure of that. Just as long as it wasn't another Eorl incident.  
The long grasses of the Riddermark looked like waves in the strong wind. There was snow on the higher places of the land, but down in the Westfold it was reasonably temperate.  
"What am I looking for anyway?" Khamul muttered. "Ah, who cares? These things tend to find me themselves." She just hoped it wasn't Gandalf. She really didn't want to see him again. Or Estel. She'd probably have to kill him now, what with both Sauron and Morgoth loose in Arda.  
Khamul soon found herself near a winding silver river coming out of a large forest. There was an eerie quality to the forest, a quality Khamul associated with Caradhras. Perhaps the trees were as sentient as the mountain.  
Not wanting to find out, Khamul stayed far away from the trees and kept an eye on them at all times.  
It was not long before Khamul found that Rohan was not as uninhabited as it looked. Down the river a bit a wagon was parked in the long grass. It looked to Khamul like it was deserted or abandoned. Hoping for some good scavenging, she nudged her horse in its direction.  
"Halt!" cried a large, fierce man with hair so vibrantly blond it was almost blinding. He was also carrying a very large spear and seemed ready to use it.  
"Just passing through," Khamul said. If you squinted, the fellow kind of looked like Eorl. Bigger, much bigger, but still like Eorl.  
"Well keep on passing," the man spat. "Go on, leave!"  
"Father!" A boy with the same horrible hair sat up in the wagon. He noticed Khamul and stared, his eyes growing wide.  
Now that boy looked like Eorl. Like an identical copy of Eorl. Well, this wasn't good.  
"What is it?" the man asked, still watching Khamul warily.  
"Mother had her baby!"  
"Did she?" the man asked, taking his eyes off Khamul and walking over to the wagon. "How are you, dear?" he asked, glancing into the wagon, presumably at his wife and their new child.  
"Just fine," came the quiet voice. "I think I'm getting a bit old for this kind of thing."  
"Ah, isn't she beautiful. As fair as any a flower in the land."  
"What should we name her?"  
"Well…I don't know. Something like her brother, I suppose. So's people can tell they're related."  
"If she has his hair, that won't be a problem," Khamul said.  
The man's wife sat up. She had a very tired face and brown hair. "Who is she?" she asked her husband.  
"Just some traveler," the man said. "Go on, leave," he said. "This is a family occasion."  
"Eomund!" the woman exclaimed. "You mustn't be so cruel! Especially to strangers! Why, she might be on her way to Meduseld to offer her allegiance to the king!"  
"I might," Khamul said.  
"You must always be courteous to strangers," the woman continued, "lest they take their revenge."  
"Don't worry about me," Khamul said as Eomund gripped his spear tighter. "Wouldn't harm a fly. Just leaving right now."  
"Simbelmyne!" Eomund said suddenly.  
"What?" his wife asked.  
"That's what we should name her. It's a good name. A type of flower."  
"A type of flower that grows on burial mounds! We will not be naming her that!"  
Khamul sighed. "Why not Eowyn?" she suggested. "Fits with your name, and it's the name of the…" She trailed off. She'd heard that name in the future. The fairest woman in all Arda, that's what one of the Halflings had said. Damn it all!   
"That's an excellent name," the wife said. "Eowyn it is. See, Eomund, strangers give very good advice."  
"Fits with mine," Eomund muttered, "fits with Eomer's," The boy grinned, "it's a good name." He nodded approvingly at Khamul.  
Well, I've done it now, Khamul thought. Theoden and Eowyn are born and ready for the war. It's got to be the war. And then there's Elessar. Estel. Damn it all.  
While the happy family was talking and observing baby Eowyn, Khamul made her escape, cursing herself all the while. Damn Caradhras! It was the mountain's fault she had come. Of course, Eowyn would've been born anyway, but she would've had a different name.  
I haven't really done anything, Khamul thought. Nothing awful. Everything's going to turn out for the best.  
And what exactly was the best?


	55. Gollum

Riding east, Khamul skirted the border of Gondor and found herself along another river. This one, however, was not bordered by potentially sentient trees. It was the Anduin, flowing all the way out to the sea.  
Finding a place to cross the Great River was difficult. There were several spots where it had frozen over, but the ice didn't look particularly thick.   
Khamul finally found a shallow spot, albeit with a very swift current, rather close to the marshes. In fact, she could see the noisome smog hovering over the swamp from here.  
I wonder what I'll find there, Khamul thought. Hopefully it's a damn sight more helpful than that stuff about going to Rohan. I suppose Caradhras was thinking I'd kill the family. Kill the family! I'm a ringbearer, not a monster.  
Or am I?  
I've killed innocents before. Not intentionally though. They're just causalities of war.  
Khamul was saved painful introspection by a slight movement somewhere in the marshes. She was just on the border of the noxious swamp, and somewhere out there something was moving.  
"This is no place for a horse," Khamul muttered, dismounting and starting across the marsh. She put her foot in a small pool and cursed, the brackish water splattering everywhere.  
The place was riddled with little pools of water interspersed between lumps of moss-covered land. Small, scrubby plants grew here and there as well as long, pointed grasses.   
So far Khamul had not seen a single animal here. Not even birds flew over ahead. She suspected that if they did, they'd have dropped from the smell. It reeked. It was even worse than when she'd last been there.  
There was a splash not far away. Khamul's hand went to her sword as she strained for a glimpse of the creature.  
It's head popped up a moment later. It was a sickly white with stringy hair covering a round head with large ears.  
Creeping across the marsh, Khamul soon came close to the creature. It's back was to her as it crouched over something, chortling.  
"Ohhh, fish so juicy sweet!" it gurgled in a sort of song. "Loves our fishes, we do! Loves our fishes!"  
"All I'm seeing is a grubby little earthworm," Khamul said, glancing at what it was cooing over.  
The creature shrieked and jumped to its feet. Sort of. It remained in a crouched position as if it couldn't stand properly.   
"What does it wants with us?" it whined, groveling at Khamul's feet. It had seen her sword. "What does it wants with poor Gollum?"  
"Gollum?" Khamul asked. The name was familiar. Of course! Primela's deranged nephew. The finder of the Ring.  
"It knows our name?"  
"I know your name. I'm not sure about this other person."  
"Oh, it likes its little jokes, yes it does. What does it wants?"  
"Do you have the Ring?"  
Gollum hissed. "Preciousss! It wants the precious as well! Well, we hasn't gots the precious, has we? Lost it to the nasty Hobbitses… Nasty Hobbitses!"  
"You lost it to a Halfling?"  
"Nasty Halfling stole our birthday present! Stole the precious! Gollum, gollum!" He made that awful sound in his throat again.  
"Do you know where the Ring is now?" Khamul asked. Was it still with that fellow, Bilbo, or had it moved on? Was Gollum hunting it?  
"Hobbitses has the precious, yes he does. Nasty Hobbitses."  
"Where is it?"  
"Hobbitses has it!"  
"Yes, I know that. Where is it?" Khamul was starting to lose patience.  
"Hobbitses!"  
"If you don't tell me where it is, I will take you back to Mordor with me."  
Gollum hissed. "It comes from the Dark Lord's land, precious. It's not a friendly one, no it isn't. It wants to take us there…to Him…the Great Eye."  
"Sauron's vision isn't all it's cracked up to be," Khamul said. "Now spit out where the Halfing is or I'll haul you to the Barad-dur, and I can guarantee you won't like that very much."  
Gollum frowned. "We doesn't remember," he said.  
"Yes, you do. Where does Bilbo live?"  
A crafty look came over Gollum's face. "It knows the Hobbitses' name. Doesn't know where the Hobbitses lives. Wants to ask us about it, precious. But we doesn't remember! Gollum, gollum!"  
"You're a lying bastard!" Khamul snarled, grabbing the deformed creature. For such an emaciated thing, Gollum fought like a goblin. Khamul was bitten several times and had to knock Gollum out with a rock before he stopped struggling.  
"Bastard," she muttered, dragging him back to where her horse was placidly waiting, sniffing the grass.  
Keeping Gollum bound turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. He writhed and shrieked when he woke up, whining piteously about the bonds on his wrists and ankles. And he thrashed, nearly throwing himself off the horse.  
"Hurts us!" he wailed. "Hurts us, precious! Nasty Shrieker wants to kill us!"  
"So, you know I'm a ringbearer, huh?" Khamul asked. "You can sense the ring?"  
"Yes," Gollum muttered sullenly. "Yes, we cans. All the rings. Elveses, dwarveses, and Menses. And it's one of the Shriekers, yes it is. Nasty, nasty Shrieker. Worse than elveses."  
"Can you sense the One?"  
"No, we can'ts. We knows who hases it, yes we do! Hobbitses has it! Nasty, nasty Hobbitses!"  
"Hobbits live in the north. What are you doing down here?"  
Gollum shut up immediately. "Nothing. Wasn't doing nothing down here."  
"You better not lie to Sauron the way you're lying to me. He'll have your precious tongue cut out."  
"Won't be ables to speaks then, precious. Gollum, gollum!"  
"Ever see the Morannon?" Khamul asked as they approached the massive iron gate. It was even bigger than it had been before the Last Alliance. Those men of Gondor. When they put their minds to something, they really made it good. Ironic that it would protect their enemies against they themselves.  
"Doesn't want to go to the Black Gate, no we doesn't! Let us go! Let poor Gollum go!"  
"Poor Gollum is going to stay right where he is."  
Gollum whined and wailed again. Khamul considered hitting him with another rock, but there wasn't one handy.  
The orcs on top of the gate had it opened a crack when they saw who it was. Or rather, they had the trolls open it.   
"Doesn't like the Black Land, no we doesn't!" Gollum wailed.  
"Shut up!"  
"Nasty, nasty Eye! And no fishses! Oh, we misses the fishses!"  
"Then you shouldn't've gotten the Ring in the first place. What do you mean it was your birthday present anyway?" Khamul asked.  
"Gave it to us on our birthday! Our birthday present! And the Hobbitses stole it! Stole our precious! Gollum, gollum!"  
"I bet you stole it in the first place," Khamul muttered.  
"It was our birthday present!"  
By the time they reached the Barad-dur, Khamul was gritting her teeth to keep from strangling Gollum.   
"We're here," she snapped, jumping off the horse and flinging him over her shoulder.   
"The Dark Lord's tower! Oh, poor Gollum! We doesn't wants to be here, precious!"  
"What is that appalling noise?" Vorea asked minutes after Khamul entered with Gollum. In the large, mainly empty, space, his wailing was creating a cacophony.  
"Meet Gollum," Khamul said, swinging Gollum's head toward the third ringbearer. "Say hello, Gollum."  
"Wants fishses, yes we does!" Gollum shrieked. "Hates nasty Shrieker! Nasty, nasty Shrieker!"  
"What is it?" Vorea asked.   
"Gollum is the former owner of the One Ring." This was probably a mistake bringing him here, Khamul thought. I couldn't just let him wander around though. Besides, if I know where Bilbo Baggins lives, then I'll be able to get the Ring first. Oh, maybe then I can be Dark Lord. Overthrow Sauron…resurrect Morion…sounds good to me.  
"The One Ring?" Vorea gasped. "This pitiful creature?"  
"Yes, it's changed him a bit. He knows who stole the Ring from him."  
"Hobbitses!" Gollum howled on cue. "Nasty, nasty Hobbitses!"  
"A Halfling?" Vorea asked.  
"Apparently so," Khamul said. "Of course, he won't tell us where the Halfling was from, but he knows."  
"Doesn't know, precious! We doesn't know!" Gollum whined.  
"What's making that awful noise?" Aica snarled, storming into the hall. "What is that thing?"  
"This is Gollum," Khamul said, dumping him on the ground. "You see, although I can't see everything, I do happen to find more things than you."  
"Shut up. Why does anyone care about a Gollum?"  
"He used to have the One Ring and he knows where it is."  
"Really?" Aica perked up and her eyes darted toward the stairs.  
"If you so much as think of getting Sauron and stealing my credit, I'll cut off your head," Khamul warned.  
"Oh, I wouldn't think of that," Aica said. "And don't threaten me. I could do you some damage too!"  
Khamul snorted. "Where is Sauron anyway? I think he's going to want a look at Gollum."  
Aica rolled her eyes. "They're upstairs. Near the top of the tower. Sauron's room."  
"They?" Khamul growled. Another person who referred to themselves in plural was more than she could handle.  
"Doesn't want to see Dark Lord!" Gollum wailed.  
"Shut up!" Khamul yelled, aiming a kick at Gollum, who dodged.  
"You'll see," Aica said, walking off.  
Khamul tried to puzzle it out, but Gollum made another escape attempt, trying to crawl away while she was distracted. "You little bastard!" she snarled, seizing him and throwing him over her shoulder before marching up the stairs.  
Gollum howled and shrieked, flailing his limbs and clawing at anything he could get his hands on. Twice Khamul had to pry him loose from a torch bracket he'd latched onto.  
"You're going to see Sauron whether you want to or not," she snarled. "So stop fighting!"  
"We doesn't wants to see Dark Lord!" Gollum shrieked. "Let us goes!"  
"Shut up!"  
Gollum knocked a torch off its holder, sending it clattering to the ground, all the way down the stairs. He then sank his teeth into Khamul's shoulder, though they got stuck in her armor.  
"Well, at least you're not making any noise now," Khamul muttered.  
Sauron's room was at the top of the tower. By the time she reached it, Gollum had almost bitten through her armor.   
"Not a moment too soon," she said, knocking on the door.   
"Have you been causing that racket?" Sauron asked from behind the door.  
"Yes, that's me," Khamul said.   
"Ah, you're back."  
"Yes."  
"And you've been destroying the tower on your way up. Very mature of you, I must say."  
"That's not me."  
"Who is it then?"  
"Why don't you open the door?"  
"One moment."  
A few moments later the door opened. Sauron looked at Khamul, then looked at Gollum longer. "What is it?" he asked.  
"This is Gollum."  
Sauron raised an eyebrow.  
"Doesn't like Dark Lord!" Gollum shrieked.  
"Shut up," Khamul said. "Gollum knows something."  
"Doesn't know anything, precious!"  
"Why did you bring him here?" Sauron asked.  
"Gollum knows where a fancy piece of jewelry is."  
Sauron's eyes widened. "The Ring? He knows where the Ring is?"  
"Oh yes," Khamul said with a smile. "Who has the Ring, Gollum?"  
"Hobbitses! Nasty, nasty Hobbitses!"  
"Halflings?" Sauron asked. "But…but…that's impossible."  
"Nevertheless, that's what Gollum says."  
"And you trust that creature?" another person asked, appearing in the doorway beside Sauron. He looked a bit like Morion, though he was taller and…stranger.  
"Morgoth," Khamul spat.  
"You keep a very loose leash on your servants," Morgoth commented.  
"Silence," Sauron said. He was observing Gollum, who was writhing and whining. His hand shot out and seized the creature. "I'll take it from here, Khamul. Thank you."  
"My pleasure," Khamul said with a smile.  
Gollum shrieked and shrieked. He also bit Sauron's hand. Not a wise move.  
"Will we be hunting the One?" Vorea asked as Khamul returned from her trip.   
"Soon, I suppose. Once Gollum tells Sauron where it is."  
"And who will manage the war in our absence?"  
"Sauron, I guess."  
"And the Dark Lord?"  
"You mean Morgoth? No, I think Sauron's going to have him out looking too."  
Vorea frowned. "That would be very unwise."  
"Well, he doesn't always have the brightest ideas. I mean, he put all his power into a round piece of gold."  
"I suppose you are correct. That does not bode well for us."  
Khamul had to agree.


	56. Battle Plans

Khamul did not see Gollum again. Whether Sauron had killed him or was merely keeping him in the dungeons under Barad-dur, she didn't know, and neither did she particularly care. She had absolutely no desire to meet 'fishses' Gollum again. However, she was curious as to whether he knew where Bilbo lived. It seemed doubtful. After all, what kind of moron would tell a deranged creature their name and address?  
"You are distracted," Vorea commented as she surveyed a large map of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. She pushed an orc statue represent a regiment forward, frowned, then moved it back.  
"I'm bored stiff," Khamul grumbled. "You're acting like you're removing a bit of the Barad-dur's foundation, and trying to do it without toppling it."  
"This is tactics," Vorea said. "Lord Sauron has entrusted me with the war against Gondor."  
"Why you?"  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"Why you and not Morgoth or me? Well, Morgoth I can understand. Sauron doesn't want to give him any responsibility in case he uses it to stab Sauron in the back. But why not me? I'm not an idiot."  
"You are most certainly not. However, you are not trustworthy."  
"What are you talking about?!" Khamul exclaimed. "I'm perfectly – ! Oh. Right. Okay, you're right. So you're the next one down?"  
"Yes. I believe I have an excellent plan," Vorea said. "You see, the Anduin runs through Osgiliath, cutting it in half." She pointed to the blue ribbon of paint denoting the river. "If we can take and hold the eastern half of the city, then we have an excellent spot to launch attacks on the western bank. In order to destroy us, Gondor's forces will have to cross the river. A dangerous thing, for they will be very vulnerable in that crossing."  
"So, basically, if we get the eastern side, we get Osgiliath?"  
"There will still be resistance in the western half, but yes, we will control much of the city. And once the western side falls, we will be able to ferry our forces across the river and launch an attack on Minas Tirith itself."  
"That's going to take a while."  
"No, it is a small distance from Osgiliath to the capital."  
"I mean, it's going to take a while to get that kind of army together. Minas Tirith isn't some abandoned dump like Osgiliath. It's got seven walls! And the gate's never been breached. Or that's the legend anyway."  
"The legend is correct."  
"And you think you can do it?"  
Vorea smiled. "Mordor is filling with orcs, goblins, trolls, and Men. Sauron has sent out the call to our allies."  
"It's going to take more than that to conquer Gondor."  
"Siege weapons are being built as we speak. And I have a special one in the works."  
"Huh, what's that?"  
"I call it Grond. Morgoth seems to find that offensive. It is a ram that will be used to break open the so-called impregnable gate."  
"And you think it'll work? People've been trying for millennia to get those gates open."  
"This will work," Vorea said. "I am sure of it."  
Khamul was skeptical of that claim. After a certain amount of time, things either crumbled away or were so close to invulnerable that they might as well be. It would take an act of the Valar – or of a Sauron with the Ring – to bring down the gates of Minas Tirith.  
"Sauron wants to see you," Ancalime said, wandering into the room, stroking a huge white cat.  
"What about?" Khamul snapped.  
"I don't know. He seemed excited."  
"Huh," Khamul muttered. "Wonder what it is."  
"Do you have any valuable insights?" Vorea asked, gesturing to the map.  
"No."  
"I shall continue my planning then."  
"You do that." Khamul left Ancalime to study the map with puzzlement while Vorea continued to move little figures back and forth.   
"Ah, Khamul." Sauron was seated behind his desk, a large window looking out on the Black Land behind him. The fires of Mt. Doom were visible in the corner.  
"What'd you want?" Khamul asked.  
"The years pass swiftly, do they not?"  
"Yeah, so?"  
"Why, it seemed such a short time ago that Arthedain fell. Do you recall that?"  
"Yes..." What was Sauron getting at? He certainly hadn't called her up here to reminisce.  
"Gollum was unhelpful," Sauron said at last. "Baggins, he shrieked. And Shire! The Shire is apparently a place in Eriador populated by short Man-like creatures. Halflings."  
"Huh, fancy that."  
Sauron gave her a look, trying to see if she was lying. Khamul gave him her best honest face. It wasn't very good.  
"Needless to say, if the Ring is in the Shire, then it must be recovered," Sauron said. "And to whom can I trust such a valuable mission?"  
"I don't know. Who can you trust?"  
"I cannot trust Melkor, and nor can I spare Vorea. Aica is needed for spying on Gondor, as is Ceure, who lacks the deceitful and cruel touch anyway. Yanta lacks the subtlety needed for this, and Metima couldn't find her way out of a barrel. Ancalime and Ringe are idiots."  
"Which leaves me."  
"Yes."  
"You want me to find the Ring?"  
"For now," Sauron said.  
"What'd you mean?"  
"I mean that I want you alone to search for the Ring for now. But I will be ready to declare myself shortly. When that occurs, I will unleash all the ringbearers."  
"Unleash us, huh? Like we're dogs."  
"Yes."  
"Did you kill Gollum?" Khamul asked. "Just curious."  
"No. I have released him."  
"What?"  
"I have released him. Following him may be an excellent way to both find the Shire, and Baggins."  
"What if someone else finds him?"  
"Who else is looking for him?"  
"I don't know," Khamul muttered. She started for the door, then paused. "Vorea's planning an invasion of Osgiliath."  
"Is she? That seems highly intelligent."  
"Is the war starting?"  
Sauron smiled. "The war?" he asked innocently.  
"Yes, The War. The utter destruction of all your enemies."  
"The utter destruction of all my enemies will only occur when I have the Ring."  
"But this is The War."  
"Yes. It is."  
Khamul nodded. "Good to know," she muttered. "Is it going to be like the Last Alliance?"  
"We will not be losing, and no, it will not be. The elves and humans have no friendship, and the dwarves are buried in their mountain halls. Gondor and Lorien are all that remain, and Gondor is all that is truly left."  
"So it's going to be a war on Gondor then?"  
"For us," Sauron said.  
"Is there someone else involved?"  
"Saruman is destroying Theoden's mind, as his armies are destroying Rohan. Gondor can expect no help from them." Sauron smiled again. "That pleased Melkor greatly. I can't imagine why. Did he actually think that a bunch of horsemen could somehow hurt him?"  
"Beren stabbed him with a knife."  
"By accident. The blade broke and cut him. It took one of the mightiest elves to so much as injure him, and he broke the elf like a dry stick."  
"Don't know why he'd be scared of Rohan then," Khamul said.   
"Find the Ring."  
"Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Just on my way now, sir!"  
After Khamul left, Sauron reviewed his notes on Rohan and Saruman. Should he let the wizard destroy the land? Was there something there that Melkor feared? If so, should it be preserved so Sauron had some leverage over the first Dark Lord?  
"No," Sauron said at last. One less human kingdom to worry about was fine with him.


	57. Hunting Gollum Again

If I were Gollum, where would I be? Khamul wondered. Judging by the little creature's love of fish, he would gravitate toward water, but he'd steer clear of human settlements. Which was why he was probably somewhere near the Dead Marshes.  
Great. Just great. That sludge pit again.  
The road to Mordor was crowded with orcs and Men. Khamul was disappointed in the Gondorian rangers. They were supposed to be doing a better job than this! At this rate Mordor was going to be overflowing!  
Looking to the west, Khamul saw a flash of white. The tower of Ecthelion. The tower of Calimehtar, the last great king of Gondor. There were no more kings in Gondor. And there never would be.  
Reaching the edge of the festering, fetid marshes, Khamul drew her horse up, scowling at the horizon. "Who is that?" she snarled. There was the crawling/hopping figure of Gollum – no mistake there – but there was someone else! Someone was leading the wretch like a dog with a leash around his neck! Someone had captured him!  
Looks like someone else had been looking for Gollum after all.  
If someone was looking for Gollum, then someone knew that he knew something important, which could only be that he knew the location of the Ring. And if it was known that the Ring was out there in the world…  
"Gotta kill 'em!" Khamul hissed, kicking her horse. It bolted along the edge of the marsh. Khamul hoped to intercept this new person before they saw her, but it seemed unlikely. They had probably already spotted her.  
They were a hundred yards apart when an arrow whizzed over Khamul's head. Whoever was leading Gollum shouted something and gestured wildly.  
"Give me the stupid little critter!" Khamul shouted, drawing her sword. Another arrow, and then another. She ignored them. Whoever this was was a terrible shot.  
She pulled the horse up sharp when she saw who it was. "Oh for the Valars' sake!" she snarled. "Why do you keep getting my way?"  
"Why do you keep getting in mine?" Aragorn asked.   
"Nasty, nasty Shrieker!" Gollum whined, writhing in the mud. "Hates it! Hates it we does, precious!"  
"I take it he knows you," Aragorn said.  
"We've met," Khamul growled.  
"And you wish to take him to your foul master."  
"You know Sauron's back?"  
Aragorn nodded.   
"You aren't going to give me Gollum, are you?"  
"I'm afraid not."  
"All right then." Khamul sheathed her sword. "I'm doing this because of whatever's going to happen next, all right? I've not gone soft."  
Aragorn nodded slowly. "What is going to happen next?" he asked.  
"I'm not telling you! Are you crazy?"  
"I'm guessing that whenever we meet again it will be in the presence of other Nazgul. You'll have to kill me then."  
Khamul nodded. "Yeah." There wasn't anything else she could say. She might've said that she didn't want to, that she wanted him to live as the last Chieftain of the Dunedain, have no children, and die of some perfectly normal reason. She might've said that. But it wouldn't've mattered because the only way he was going to get his pretty elf was by becoming king of Gondor. Khamul couldn't let that happen.  
She might've apologized. She might've if she was someone other than Khamul.  
"He's told you everything, hasn't he?" Aragorn asked, jerking Gollum's leash.  
"Hates it!" Gollum shrieked. "Hates them both! Nasty Shrieker and nasty Man! Hates them! Gollum, gollum!"  
"I'll see you," Khamul said. She turned her horse away from the Marshes. She rode through the deserted interior of Gondor and into Rohan. It was a miserable land. So different from the waves of grass she'd seen only a few years before.  
Saruman, Khamul thought. Her hands tightened on the reins. She hated Sauron, but she loathed Saruman. Treacherous little rat, she thought. She and Gandalf were on different sides, true, but Gandalf didn't deserve to have a weasel like Saruman on his.  
There were a few bands of Dunlendings running around, but they avoided her. Perhaps it was the force of Khamul's hate for Saruman, but more likely it was some magic of Sauron's through the ring.   
The lands only grew more desolate as she continued northward. Pausing on the former border of Arnor, Khamul looked over the land. There were a few ruins here and there, overgrown and tangled with weeds.   
What would this look like when Sauron had his Ring back? Just like this, only with goblins and orcs in every hollow, and slaves working what soil they could. Or maybe there wouldn't be anything at all. Sauron had never shared his ultimate plan for the world.  
The wilds of Arnor had grown wilder, and by the time Khamul reached the Baranduin she was scratched up, twigs in her hair, and she was in a thoroughly bad mood.  
"I'm going through all this trouble again!" she snarled, remembering the journey back from the Lonely Mountain. Only this time there was no Morion. Hopefully there'd be no Gandalf either. Just her and Baggins.


	58. Treachery

"Push them back! Push them back!"  
The orcs launched themselves from the boats, leaping atop Gondorian soldiers, biting them, stabbing them, clawing them.  
"The beasts!" the Captain of the Guard snarled, striking one's head off. "Why now, the little fiends? Has The War begun?"  
"I think they have some other purpose in mind," his brother said, sending an arrow into a large orc's chest. "These are not the orcs we are used to Ithilien."  
"Indeed? Are the ones in Ithilien blue?"  
"These are weak orcs. If I were a cynical man, I would say Sauron has sent his weakest servants to bother us while some greater evil is being done."  
The Captain considered this. "You are right, little brother. That is just the sort of scheme the Eye would come up with. Get down!" He hurled his brother to the ground just as an orc jumped toward the spot he'd been standing.  
"I could have handled that myself," his brother said, standing up and dusting himself off.  
"Faramir, I fear for your safety."  
"I am a Captain of Gondor! The same as you!"  
"But I am the elder." The Captain smiled and attacked the orcs with renewed vigor. "If we are to discover what new devilry Sauron is up to, we must be rid of his fodder as swiftly as possible!"  
A chill swept through the city. Faramir and his brother shivered, as did their men. Even the orcs paused in their attack, glancing this way and that.  
"Shriekers!" one whined, cowering on the ground.  
"What is this?" Boromir hissed. "What new device is this of Sauron's?"  
"It's coming from over there." Faramir cut his way through whimpering orcs and toward the source of the chill.  
"No! Get back here, little brother!" Boromir ran after his brother, fear constricting his heart. He didn't care for his own life, but if Faramir died…   
He found Faramir standing on a ruined building, looking out over an empty expanse of the city and river.  
"There's nothing there," he whispered.  
"We need to get back to the battle," Boromir said. "Weak these orcs may be, but if there are enough, they could still overrun us."  
"I cannot see anything, but my heart fears this place. There is some evil here."  
"An invisible evil?"  
"Indeed."  
Boromir stared at the river. There was nothing there. He shifted his gaze to the city. Nothing. "There is nothing there." And yet, he could still feel the cold, the dread, the terror.   
"Some new devilry of Sauron's," Faramir muttered. He stared for several moments longer. "You are right, my brother. We must return to the battle."  
And so the two Captains of Gondor failed to notice eight beings cross the Anduin and ride through Osgiliath.   
Sauron had unleashed his ultimate weapon, greater than any orc.  
He had unleashed the Nazgul.  
*  
"I am pleased that you came to Isengard so quickly," Saruman said as he walked the black stone halls with Gandalf. The Grey Wizard had arrived in a hurry and seemed to need to speak with Saruman urgently. There was a slight hesitation though in Gandalf's eyes. A slight suspicion.  
Even the wisest are blind, Saruman thought. They do not see what they do not wish to.  
"Whatever you called me here for, Saruman, I fear I must speak first. In fact, I would say we need to call the Council to session, if there was time," Gandalf said. "There is not."  
"I should say not," Saruman said. "There are foul things abroad in the world."  
Gandalf looked at him sharply. "What sort of things?"  
"Creatures that wear the shapes of Men but are far more. And less. The Nazgul."  
"How many?" Radagast had mentioned the Nazgul, but he had not given numbers. Gandalf hoped, deep in his heart, that it was just Khamul. There was mutual, if somewhat grudging, respect between the two. He could reason with Khamul. He couldn't with the others.  
"Eight. And then, some time before, one."  
"All the Nine have left Minas Morgul?"  
Saruman nodded. "They are heading north, my friend. How curious. I have always believed The War would take place in the south."  
Gandalf was quiet for many long moments. "I must leave," he said. "I must return to the Shire."  
Saruman raised an eyebrow. "So soon? You've only just arrived."  
"The hobbit is in danger."  
"From what? The Nine? He does not need to fear anything unless… He has the Ring."  
Gandalf nodded wearily. "He has the Ring. A gift from his uncle. I knew it was magic the moment I laid eyes on it, but I never thought…how could I have known? The One has been hidden for millennia. All thought it had been swept out to sea."  
"And yet the Nine are abroad and heading north," Saruman said. "Toward this Halfling. If he does not have the Ring, then he is doing an excellent job of convincing them he does."  
"I must return," Gandalf whispered. He spun around and started for the door, which slammed shut in his face. Slowly, he turned around and looked at Saruman.  
"My apologies, Gandalf. I can't let you return and warn that Halfling."  
"The Nine will take the Ring then," Gandalf said. "Sauron will have the Ring!"  
"No," Saruman said. "I will. There are pits beneath Isengard, Gandalf. There are furnaces and industries. I have been creating an army there. A breed of creature stronger than even orcs. Things that can walk under the sun. Backed by my power, they are stronger than even the Nazgul. They will take the Ring and they will return it not to Sauron, but to me."  
"Traitor!" Gandalf spat. "I always knew you lusted for power, Saruman, but to betray us to Sauron! That is too far!"  
"Without me, Sauron would take the Ring and his power over Arda would be complete. By taking the Ring myself, I will usher in a new age of greatness in this world!"  
"You're mad," Gandalf snarled. "Sauron has twisted your mind. You will never gain the Ring! He's using you to get the Ring for himself! You've damned us all!"  
Saruman chuckled and shook his head. "You simply do not understand, Gandalf," he said. "You will see though. Join me in creating this new world. Us Istari should work together."  
"You can begin to atone for your treachery by letting me leave," Gandalf said. "Open these doors, Saruman."  
The White Wizard's eyes went cold as ice. "I see," he said. Quick as lightning, he lashed out with his staff. There was a blinding white light, and Gandalf crumpled to the floor.  
"You chose poorly, Gandalf," Saruman said. "The Ring shall be found, and it will be claimed by me. You could have ruled beside me, but now you must watch my star rise while yours falls."


	59. Hide and Seek

There was something about the Shire that seemed less…wholesome. The leaves were crisp and many beautiful colors, the water gurgled in streams and creeks, the whole place looked like an idealized kingdom. But there was something in the air…something dangerous. And it was like a beacon, attracting all sorts of unwholesome things.  
Like Khamul. She'd liked it when she'd been the only evil here, when this land had been pure and innocent.   
Her horse crossed over a stone bridge, its hoofbeats echoing eerily. There was something wrong in the land. It was the Ring. It was like a rot in the soil, spreading its tendrils through the entire green world.  
I'll be taking care of that soon though, Khamul thought. I'll take the Ring out of here and everything'll go back to normal.  
She snorted. What a stupid delusion, she chided herself. When I get the Ring and give it to Sauron, this place'll become even worse. There won't be anymore trees or grass. The streams'll all dry up and the Halflings will die.  
For some reason, this depressed her.  
By the evening she had reached the beginning of the small houses that dotted the landscape. Some poor fellow was outside, sweeping off the large stones leading up to his house.  
Khamul yanked on the reins and the horse came to a stop. She knew she must look like a creature out of the darkest nightmare. She was dressed all in black, her hood pulled up over her head. A sword hung at her side, and her horse foamed at the mouth and rolled its red eyes.  
The Hobbit was trembling, clutching the broom to his chest like it could possibly save him. "C-can I h-help you, sir?" he squeaked.  
"Shire," Khamul hissed, deciding to give the man a good fright.  
"Y-yes, sir. This…this is the Shire, sir. Just crossed into it a m-mile or so b-back." He started backing toward his house, sweat glistening on his forehead.  
"Baggins!"  
"Oh, there aren't no Bagginses in these parts, sir," the man said, relieved that the creature would be moving on. "They live in Hobbiton, sir." He gestured down the road. "Just follow the road, sir."  
Khamul nodded and kicked her horse. It took off down the road, eager to be on the move again.   
Once they were far away from the Hobbit, Khamul allowed herself a laugh. She'd scared the pants off him! If all Hobbits scared that easy, she'd just have to give the Hobbit a fright that killed him and take the Ring from his corpse.  
It was rather sunny the next day, which Khamul disliked, but then the clouds came and it started to rain a bit. She liked that quite a bit. Gloomy, depressing. It fit her mood well.  
As her horse ambled down the road, taking its sweet time, Khamul admired the trees. Everything looked beautiful here. It was going to be a shame when it was destroyed in fire and smoke.  
What would happen if she lost the Ring?  
Say, if she took the Ring, but sort of tripped and fell and dropped it in the Anduin again, only this time it floated all the way out to sea? That'd be a shame, wouldn't it? No Dark Lord, no eternal reign of terror.   
Good plan, Khamul thought. I like that plan.  
She pulled her horse to a stop suddenly, sniffing the air. There was a scent there. Mt. Doom. The Ring was near.  
Glancing from side to side, Khamul couldn't see a damn thing. The hood really hampered her vision. She sniffed again. It was strong. She was practically on top of the damn thing but she couldn't see it!  
Jumping off her horse, Khamul wandered around the road, sniffing. She must look like the biggest idiot in the world. Still, if she found the Ring, it didn't matter.  
Dammit! Where's the stupid thing? Khamul wondered. She stepped off the road, still sniffing. It was growing stronger.   
Maybe the Hobbit was wearing the Ring, making him invisible to Khamul. That must be it. He was nearby, practically next to her, only she couldn't see him.  
Khamul pawed at the air, frantically hoping she'd feel something solid. She did, but it was just trees.  
As she searched for the Ring, Khamul almost fell over a rotting log. She put a hand on it to steady herself. If I'd fallen over that, she thought, I'd have to pray that Aica didn't see me in the palantir, because I'd never hear the end of it.  
After another few minutes of frantic searching, Khamul had to admit that the Ring just wasn't there. Maybe a mushroom in the forest gave off a smell like Mt. Doom.  
"Dammit," Khamul muttered under her breath, hopping back on her horse. She felt like a fool and an idiot. At least there hadn't been anyone around to see her.  
Continuing on her way, Khamul didn't hear the scramble in the bushes as several Hobbits burst out of hiding and took off into the forest, scared witless. One of them was holding something very tightly in his hand. Something round and shiny. Something gold.   
The days passed in relative quiet. Khamul was liking the Shire more and more. It was so relaxing, a huge difference from the tension of Minas Morgul and Minas Tirith. She felt like she could lose herself here, isolate herself from the troubles of the rest of the world.  
But the rest of the world wasn't content to leave the Shire in peace. Evil was coming, seeping in at the borders.   
She caught a whiff of the Ring late one night as she rode along a river. She could see in the night, a gift of Sauron's power, and there was a ferry by the river. She could see small creatures moving, climbing onto it.  
Snarling, she spurred her horse along the road, giving a shriek like Aica made in the heat of battle. The creatures jumped and worked on untying the rope, praying that they could escape the terror that hunted them.  
More Hobbits with the Ring! Khamul was beginning to think the Ring liked Hobbits more than it did Sauron.  
Her horse came to a screeching halt at the edge of the river. The ferry was already halfway across. She could see the terrified faces of four Hobbits, watching in trembling fear, wondering if she'd cross.  
I would if I could, Khamul thought, considering the distance she had to jump and deciding that she couldn't. Landing in the water would destroy any awe and terror she'd instilled in the hobbits.  
With a snarl, Khamul turned her horse away from the water and galloped down the road. She'd come to a bridge eventually. And then she'd get those miserable wretches.


	60. Battle on Weathertop

"We are hunting a small creature in its home territory in a large group. What is wrong with that?" Melkor asked.   
The other Nazgul didn't answer. They didn't care for him one bit. Even Aica, who'd thought anyone would be an improvement over Morion. Anything, it turned out, except for the first Dark Lord.  
"We need to split up," Vorea answered. She was irritated at being called away from the war just when it was getting interesting.  
"Precisely," Melkor said.   
"Khamul's out there already," Yanta said.   
Melkor snorted. "I don't trust her to do the correct thing if she should find the Ring."  
"What is the correct thing?" Aica snarled.   
"Give it to me," Melkor said with a smile.  
"Shouldn't we return it to Sauron?" Ancalime asked. "I mean, it is his ring after all. Seems a bit rude not to return it if we have it."  
Melkor sighed and gritted his teeth. "I'll return it to him," he hissed. "Don't worry about that."  
"Oh. That's good."  
"Eight is far too large of a group. However, this Halfling will not be traveling without some protection. Three of you, leave and search for the Ring."  
"We'll go," Aica said, grabbing Ringe's hand and shoving it into the air with hers.   
"Good riddance," Melkor muttered under his breath. His gaze swept the riders. "Anyone else?"  
"I shall go," Vorea said.  
"Dammit, Vorea!" Yanta hissed. "We need you!"  
"Someone must keep an eye on them," Vorea said, nodding at Aica and Ringe.  
"Very well," Melkor said. "Return to me if you should find the Ring."  
"Aye, we will," Vorea said. "Come along," she ordered Aica and Ringe, turning her horse away from the large group.  
"Where're we going now?" Yanta asked, watching as the three riders grew smaller in the distance.  
Melkor lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Bree," he said. "I smell something there."  
"Just one of the Rangers, probably," Yanta said. "They reek."  
*  
"Why the Hell are you coming with us?" Aica snapped as she pushed her horse to its limits, trying to keep up with Vorea.  
"I wish to find Khamul," Vorea said. "Also, I do not like serving under the Dark Vala. His splitting of the group allowed me the opportunity to do both."  
"Bet Osgiliah would've fallen if you'd been in the south," Aica snarled.   
"What?" Vorea gasped. "How could it not have fallen? Our numbers were far superior! Even though it was a feint, we occupied much of the city by the time we crossed the river."  
"The steward's sons took it back," Aica said. "Specifically, that big one. Boromir."  
"He has been a thorn in my side since he became an adult. His brother less so, but the Ithilien Rangers have killed many orcs and Men."  
"Did they die in the attack?" Ringe asked.  
"No, they're both alive and well," Aica snarled. She took out the palantir, first glancing around just to make sure no one was watching. They were alone in a barren land.  
"Sauron will one day learn of that, if he does not know already," Vorea warned.  
"He's got other things on his mind," Aica said, gazing into the crystal depths.  
"What do you see?" Vorea asked, watching the orb as well but seeing nothing. It looked flat to her, lacking the depth that Aica saw when she gazed into it. But then, most things looked flat to Vorea with her one eye.  
Aica cackled. "The steward's only got one son left! Boromir's left him! I can see him traveling… Oh, he's in the north. I think he's heading for Rivendell."  
"Imladris? What business does a Man have in the house of the elves?"  
"I don't know. He's going there though. I'd bet my horse on it."  
Vorea pondered this development. It was not good by any means. Another Last Alliance, perhaps? No. The son of the steward was an arrogant man. He distrusted and disliked the elves, just as the elves disliked and distrusted him and all his kind. There would never be another Alliance, just as there would never be another Elendil.  
"What's that thing?" Aica asked, pointing at a hill in the distance, illuminated by the moon. It looked like the bottom of a jaw, jagged teeth-like stones sticking up at intervals.  
"I believe that is the ruins of Amon Sul," Vorea said. "Weathertop."  
"Let's go," Aica said, nudging her horse in the direction of the hill.  
"We have more important things to do than relive our past glories," Vorea said.  
Aica ignored her. "Never stood in the watchtower proper," she said. "Wasn't time. I want to do that now."  
Vorea rolled her eye and muttered under her breath but followed Aica. As did Ringe, but that was a given. He was just an extension of his sister now. Any individuality he'd once possessed had been wiped out of him after his break-up with Morion.  
They rode up to the ruined watchtower. Aica jumped off her horse and started to head up to the tower proper.  
"This is a waste of time," Vorea growled, but followed her anyway.  
"No, it isn't," Aica said.   
"Why is it that you believe that?"  
"Did you hear that?"  
"Hear what?" Vorea asked sharply. She had been more worried about traveling with Aica and what trouble Khamul was bound to have gotten herself in than in paying attention to her surroundings.  
"I heard an interesting noise," Aica said. "Sounded like a horse."  
"We are in possession of three horses."  
"Ours don't make noise. There's someone here."  
Vorea drew her sword. "They shall regret the decision to spend the night here."  
Aica grinned and dashed up the steps to the tower. The broken, crooked stairs didn't slow her in the slightest, but Vorea was forced to slow to make sure she didn't fall.  
"Are you ready for battle, Ringe?" she asked.  
The pale man nodded. He didn't talk much anymore. He didn't do much of anything.  
They emerged on an overgrown stone plateau. Weeds and brambles had grown thick over the centuries since the fall of Arthedain. The proud towers were nothing but crumbled ruins. Broken chunks of stone were all that remained of statues of great kings.   
Vorea's sharp eye glanced over the ruins, searching for any sign of life. The wind made the bushes rustle, and her grip on her sword tightened, but then she began to relax. No one is here, she thought.  
"There!" Aica hissed, pointing across the tower.  
"I can see that neither Radagast nor Saruman were mistaken," an old man said, stepping out of the shadows and into the moonlight.  
There was something about this old man that sent chills down Vorea's spine. He was far more than he appeared, that was for sure. That was not saying much though. He appeared very little, what with his plain gray robes, his crooked staff…   
"Gandalf!" Vorea gasped.  
"I'm pleased someone recognizes me," Gandalf said, inclining his hat in Vorea's direction, "though I can't say I recognize you."  
"Doesn't matter," Aica hissed, drawing her dagger. "Three Nazgul against one Istari? That's not even fair odds."  
Vorea was inclined to agree, though for different reasons. "How is it that you escaped Orthanc?" she asked. "Saruman told us that he had you captive there."  
"I have friends," Gandalf said with a shrug. "Now, tell me what brings the Nazgul to the northern lands or else we shall have to fight."  
Aica laughed and threw her knife at the wizard. As fast as a bolt of lightning, Gandalf's staff lashed out and knocked the knife away.  
"That settles that then," Vorea muttered, charging the wizard. He blocked her attack with his staff, the blade not even cutting deep into the wood.  
With a single hand Gandalf held back Vorea while he drew his sword with his other hand, parrying Ringe's half-hearted blow. The eighth Nazgul really wasn't putting much effort into his attack.  
Vorea attacked Gandalf again, aiming for the wizard's head, but Gandalf ducked and Vorea neatly sliced Ringe's forehead open.  
The eighth ringwraith shrieked and dropped his sword, clutching his head. Thick blackish blood trickled out.  
"You coward!" Aica snarled, snatching up Ringe's sword.  
"I advise you to return to your own lands," Gandalf said, a fierce and dangerous gleam in his eye. Before anyone could respond the crystal atop his staff flared with a brilliant light.  
Aica screamed and covered her eyes, stumbling back so far she nearly fell off Weathertop. Vorea closed her eye and waited for the light to pass. When she opened it again Gandalf was gone. She imagined she could hear the neigh of a horse in the distance.  
"My head…" Ringe moaned.  
"Get up!" Aica snarled, kicking him in the ribs. "I can't believe it! Three Nazgul against one old man!"  
"They say the Istari are Maiar," Vorea said. "If so, then it is as if we had fought Lord Sauron. It is not unexpected that we lost."  
Aica snorted. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."  
Vorea could believe it. She could believe it quite well. "Let us take our leave of this cursed place," she said. "We will have better luck once we find Khamul."


	61. Crickhollow

It was a fine autumn morning, Khamul thought as her horse lazily walked down the road. She wasn't entirely sure where she was going, but she was following her senses. Or, at least, her idea of where the Ring might be.  
It was sometime after noon that Khamul found the house. It was a nice house near a forest. Wisps of smoke drifted up from the chimney and Khamul saw flickers of shadow inside.   
Khamul stared at the house for a long time. It looked…rather like the houses in Hobbiton. She wasn't in Hobbiton though, she knew that much. This was a far more isolated place.   
Still…there was a smell to it. Like the Ring. It was faint though, far fainter than yesterday.   
Whether the Ring was there or not, it had been there once. And there was someone still there. Someone who might know where the Ring was now.   
Khamul grinned and swung down from her horse. One of her favorite things about these Hobbits was how easily intimidated they were. They were so short and so cowardly. She towered over them while they crumbled like sand before her.  
She was just starting across the grass toward the house when she heard the thunder of hoofs. Spinning around, hand on her sword, Khamul nearly dropped from shock when she saw who it was.  
"What're you doing here?" she called as Vorea rode up. Along with Aica and Ringe, which was a shame, but Khamul was determined to ignore them.  
"Shortly after you left, Lord Sauron sent us to Eriador as well," Vorea said. "Morgoth believed we would have a better chance of finding the Ring if we were to separate."  
"Where's he?"  
"I do not know, though I suspect he went either east or south."  
"Well, as long as he's far away from me, I'm fine with that," Khamul said. "Found me at a good time though. Smell that." She nodded at the house.  
"Smell it?" Aica sneered.  
"Shut up. Vorea, recognize anything?"  
The one-eyed ringbearer sniffed the air. "I do not," she said. "There is something in the air, but I cannot identify it."  
"It's the Ring. A faint trace of the Ring, but still. Somebody's inside there, too. I think we should break down that door and give 'em a right fright."  
"Sounds good to me," Aica said, grinning.  
The three new Nazgul dismounted and drew their swords before following Khamul toward the house. It seemed to shiver as the ringbearers approached.  
Aica reached down and picked up a rock. With a cackle of glee, she hurled it at the house, smashing a window. There was a terrified scream from inside.  
"There is just one occupant," Vorea said, raising her sword. "Shall we slay him?"  
"What's the fun in that?" Khamul muttered. "Suppose so."  
"Are you going soft?" Aica asked, a gleam in her eye that Khamul didn't like at all.  
"Shut up and stop playing with rocks," Khamul snapped. "You're going to let him get away!"  
A sinister smile on her lips, Aica nodded and followed Khamul into battle. The second ringbearer kicked the door open and ran inside, readying to fight whoever had the misfortune of being home.  
"There's no one here," she muttered.  
"Apparently not," Vorea agreed, looking around cautiously. "Ah." She pointed to a fluttering curtain. "He went out the window."  
The four ringbearers hurried out of the house, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to find their quarry. Khamul and Aica were neck in neck as they dashed around the house and found themselves staring into the tangled depths of a forest.  
"Where the Hell did he go?" Khamul muttered.  
"Into the forest obviously," Aica snapped.  
"I know that! I don't see him though, and nothing looks like it's been disturbed." Khamul looked along the forest and saw a red coattail disappear into the shrubbery. "There he is!" she shouted.  
The Nazgul whirled around and took off in pursuit of the Hobbit. They crashed through the shrubby, gnarly roots tripping Ringe and causing Vorea and Khamul to slam into each other, sending both to the ground.  
Aica laughed faintly maniacally and kept running, her blonde hair bouncing in the wind.  
"Get up!" Khamul snarled, trying desperately to untangle herself from Vorea. Valar! The ringbearer wore more armor than the most paranoid orc, and bits of it kept snagging Khamul.  
"She will find him," Vorea said.  
"That's what I'm worried about!"  
Vorea frowned and seemed about to ask why, but by then Khamul had untangled herself and was chasing after Aica.  
The Halfling was running fast, but slowing rapidly. He was round and short and his little legs were no match for the long-legged Nazgul. He kept glancing behind him and put on a burst of speed, but it was no use. It would all be over soon.  
Aica drew her dagger.   
"Don't kill him!" Khamul yelled. "He knows about the Ring!"  
Aica wasn't listening though. She drew her arm back, ready to skewer the little creature.  
"Listen to me, dammit!" Khamul snarled, making a flying leap in which she tackled Aica, slamming her into the ground. The Halfling made his escape through a hedge.  
"What was that for?" Aica snapped, jumping to her feet. "I had him!"  
"We needed him alive!"  
"Now he's gone!"  
"And he's just as useless as he would've been dead!"  
"Except now he's going to rouse the town!"  
Khamul snorted. "A bunch of Halflings. Right. Explain to me again why we need to fear that?"  
"The Halflings have long had the Rangers of the North as their protectors," Vorea said, walking up. "If the Halflings know of Nazgul in the Shire, be assured the Rangers will as well."  
"We can take them," Aica sneered. "Just like we did that bunch that tried to stand against us in…ah, I forget. Who cares?"  
There was the faint bugle of horn calls in the distance. The Nazgul grew quiet as they listened.  
"We need to leave," Vorea said. "To be found here would be to alert the Wise as to our intentions."  
"They already know," Khamul said.


	62. The Prancing Pony

"What a miserable town," Melkor said.  
"Disgusting bunch of shacks," Yanta said.  
"Should be burned down," Metima agreed. They exchanged grins.  
"That seems awfully mean," Ancalime said.  
"You do realize that Aica's extensive spy network could be listening to you right now?" Ceure reminded them cheerfully.  
"Dammit," Yanta muttered. "You ruin everything."  
The five Nazgul traveled down the muddy road and up to the gates of Bree. They were closed, as was usual for the night. Didn't want anything nasty and unnatural getting into their precious town.  
Melkor looked the gate up and down. He reached out with one long pale hand and touched the wood. "Frail," he commented, his voice quiet. He smiled faintly. "So unlike the walls of Gondolin."  
The ringbearers were old, but Melkor was ancient. Not to mention a Vala, albeit a fallen one. Still, the other four couldn't suppress a shudder.  
"Who are ya?" a man asked, throwing open a little window in the gate. He looked out at the ringwraiths with one bulging eye, the other sunken into his face.  
"Greetings," Melkor said, smiling. The uneasy feeling grew among the other ringbearers.  
"Who are ya and what's yer business?"  
"We wish to enter the town."  
"Have to wait until sunrise."  
"And why is that?"  
"Well…you could be some unnatural creatures."  
Yanta started to laugh but turned it into a cough. Metima elbowed her in the ribs. Melkor shot them both a sharp glare.  
"I assure you, we are not such things," he purred. "Let us in. We are cold and tired and fear the unnatural things of the night ourselves."  
"Well…all right," the gatekeeper muttered, shutting the window. A few moments later the gate itself creaked open.   
"Thank you," Melkor said, giving a respectful nod to the man as he rode past.  
"You're good at that," Yanta said.  
"Groveling to the Valar is occasionally of use," the Dark Lord said. He sneered. "Their precious Arda, ruined again."  
"Do you smell something?" Ancalime asked.  
"What?" Yanta asked.  
"Something burning."  
"It's pouring rain! How's it going to be burning?"  
"Shut up!" Metima hissed.   
"What?" Yanta asked.  
"The Ring! It's got to be the Ring!"  
"What'd you mean?"  
"The burning smell. Morgoth isn't smelling it, is he? He isn't quite like us."  
"Oh yeah…" Yanta grinned. "Doesn't know it's here, does he?"  
"I think he's got an idea," Metima said, watching Melkor suspiciously.  
"There is an awful lot of whispering going on back there," the Dark Lord said, turning around. He was beautiful. Really. Angelically beautiful. But there was such evil, such hate, such malice hidden under the surface that it spoiled the effect. The ringbearers could see the evil of the Dark Lord seeping through his fair face like a swamp creeping up through the cracks in a marble street.  
"Just talking about how much it's changed," Yanta said.   
"I thought we were talking about the smell," Ancalime said.  
Yanta could've throttled her, but then she'd still be alive.  
"What smell?" Melkor asked.  
"Sewer thing," Yanta said. "Towns old as this, no proper sanitation."  
"I thought it smelled like something on fire," Ancalime said.  
"Do tell me more, Ancalime," Melkor purred.  
"It just smells like something's burning."  
"Where is this coming from?"  
"I don't know." Ancalime sniffed the air. "Over there." She pointed at an inn with a swaying sign. A sign of a horse.  
"Indeed," Melkor murmured. "We shall go there then." He drew in a deep breath of air.   
"Smell anything?" Yanta asked.  
The Dark Lord ignored her. He couldn't smell it. All the other ringbearers knew that now. The Lord of the Nazgul couldn't smell the Ring.   
"I will find it," he said.   
"Not if we find it first," Yanta muttered.  
"What would you do if you had the Ring?" Metima asked.  
Yanta thought about it as they made their way slowly through the streets of Bree. "First I'd kill him, and then Sauron. Then I'd make peace with Gondor and everybody else before settling down to live in Minas Morgul. I don't like the Barad-dur. In fact, I'd have it torn down."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah."  
"Could I live with you?"  
Yanta snorted. "Of course. You could even grow your apples."  
"I'd like that," Metima said. She smiled. "I'd like that a lot. What would you do if you had the Ring, Ceure?"  
The older woman frowned. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose…well, I would like to live in Minas Morgul as well. I like it much better than Mordor. Far too dark and dreary, though I suppose with Sauron's demise it would be much better."  
"Why would you kill him?" Ancalime asked.  
"Sauron? Because he treats us like servants," Yanta said.  
"You took the rings though. He just offered them."  
"Yeah, but I wasn't signing my soul away. I just wanted some power. Some control in life."  
"Seems a bit mean," Ancalime said. "Turning on him like that."  
"Shut up," Yanta snapped. "No need to ask what you'd do. You'd probably just drop it somewhere and forget about it."  
Ancalime watched the road. "I wish Morion was here," she said quietly. "He was always very nice to me."  
"Oh Valar!" Yanta groaned.   
"Another intriguing discussion of the sewer system?" Melkor asked. He was standing by the door to the inn, watching the still-mounted ringbearers with interest.  
"Yeah," Yanta muttered, jumping off her horse. "Just plain fascinating."  
"Is there a plan?" Ceure asked.  
"As a matter of fact, there is," Melkor said. "You two," He pointed at Yanta and Metima, "go inside and scout out the place."  
"Why us?" Yanta asked.  
"Because, unfortunately, you blend in. Ceure and Ancalime are of Numenorean descent and thus rather unusual for this land. I, as you have undoubtedly noticed and whispered about, exude a rather strong aura."  
Muttering under her breath, Yanta stormed over to the inn, closely followed by Metima.  
"Hello, ladies!" the bartender called as they walked into the inn. "What can I get for you?"  
"Two mugs of your best ale," Yanta said, slapping some coins on the counter. She surveyed the room as the bartender nodded and hurried off to fill the order. Nothing too unusual.  
"Halflings." Metima elbowed Yanta in the ribs.  
"Stop doing that."  
"But there're Halflings."  
"I can see them." There were four of them, dancing merrily, drinking, laughing. None of them looked possessed by a demonic piece of metal.  
"Do you think they have it?"  
"Do they remind you of Sauron, Morgoth, or any of us?"  
"No."  
"Then they don't." Yanta accepted the drinks the bartender brought and passed one to Metima. "Drink up."  
"Aren't we going to tell the others?"  
"In a while."


	63. The Cursed Line

Melkor was starting to get impatient, but he dared not go in and drag Yanta and Metima out of the inn himself. He already had to stand in an alley some distance from the inn just to keep the mortal horses calm. He figured it was because of the anger raging inside him. He struggled to control himself, but it was becoming steadily more difficult.  
The Ring should be his by now. He should have limitless power. He should have Sauron in his rightful place, kneeling on the ground, worshiping his lord and master. But no. He was still trapped in this pathetic body, still stuck in the mortal plane.   
It was close though. So close. He could reach out his hand and grasp it, but he was reaching into the limitless darkness to find a thing as small as a grain of sand. It did not call to him the way it did to the others. The Ring saw the danger Melkor represented, the rival he was to its master. And so it did not call to him.  
Melkor leaned his head against the cold brick wall and closed his eyes. He could rend this town to pieces, brick by brick, but the Ring would slip away. Blunt, immense magic was as effective as a catapult against an ant. He needed to discard Grond for this, and pick up Ringil.  
Scowling, cursing himself for thinking of the damned elf, Melkor opened his eyes. The rage was building again. Damn the Valar for driving him to this. Damn the elves for opposing him. Damn the Men for rising against him. For the most part.  
A very drunken Halfling staggered into the alley. Probably to take a piss. He saw Melkor through bleary eyes and raised a hand, trying to ward off the danger he felt emanating from the Dark Lord.  
"You stupid little creature," Melkor snarled, about to smite the wretched thing.  
The Halfling was gone though, running back to the inn, scared sober.  
Tired of waiting, Melkor left the alley, storming back to where the other Nazgul stood. "Are they back yet?" he snapped.  
"No," Ceure said.  
With a snarl and curse, Melkor spun on his heel and headed for the inn, ignoring the other Nazgul's protests.  
He flung open the door and found Yanta and Metima immediately. They were sitting with their feet up by the fire, enjoying a beer. Their faces paled when they saw him, but neither looked overly concerned. He needed them.   
"You bastards," Melkor spat. He would never have picked such untrustworthy servants. At least, they'd be too scared to betray him.  
"We haven't really picked up on anything, but we're going to give it another hour," Yanta said.  
"Get up," Melkor snapped. "We're leaving."  
"What? The town?"  
"No. Get up."  
With a sigh, Yanta rose, Metima following her, and the two ringbearers left the inn with the Dark Lord.  
"Is there a plan?" Ancalime asked. "I like plans."  
"You're going to stay here," Melkor said. He didn't trust Ancalime with anything complicated. Or simple.  
"Oh."  
"Watch the horses." Let's see if she can do that.  
Yanta snorted. "Won't be there when we come back," she muttered.  
"What are the rest of us going to do?" Ceure asked.  
Melkor eyed the inn. "The Ring is in the inn. Evidently they," He nodded at Yanta and Metima, "can't find it."  
"What about it?" Yanta asked.  
"So we're going to storm the inn."  
"All right. Something exciting to do at last."  
"Lead us to the Ring," Melkor said. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword. "I'll do the rest."  
Yanta and Metima exchanged glances. "Don't think he's going to let us get out of this easy," Yanta muttered.  
"He'll find it sooner or later," Metima said. "Might as well."  
"All right. When should we do it?" Yanta asked.  
Melkor looked up at the dark sky. "Now," he said.   
"All right." Yanta drew her sword.   
"I'm afraid I'm not very good with this," Ceure said, drawing her ancient Numenorean blade.  
"Me neither," Metima said.  
Melkor gritted his teeth. When he had the Ring he would shake Sauron until the miserable Maia told him just what had possessed him to give rings of power to such creatures as these.  
He took a malicious pleasure in kicking in the door. It was late enough that the common room was empty, the fire out, the bartender gone to bed.  
Yanta drew in a deep breath of air. "Upstairs."  
Nothing would stand in the Dark Lord's way. He kicked aside chairs and hurled a table across the room as he made for the stairs. He would not give the Ring a chance to escape.  
"You know," Yanta muttered to Metima, "I like the idea of Morgoth with the Ring even less than Sauron with it."  
Metima nodded. "There's nothing we can do."  
"Oh yeah?"  
"Don't do anything stupid."  
"Stupid is my middle name."  
"At least she realizes it," Ceure said.  
Melkor walked like Death up the stairs. Like an oncoming storm, like a tidal wave. He was unstoppable. Nothing could stand against him.  
"Which room?" he asked, his voice as dark as thunder.  
"Um…let's see… I bet it was those Hobbits, you know, who had the Ring."  
Melkor growled. His eyes were going dark, his teeth elongating and sharpening.  
"A small room," Yanta said.  
"That one!" Metima exclaimed, pointing to a door. "The doorway's shorter than the others," she explained.  
"Yeah, it's that one," Yanta said, nodding vigorously.  
Melkor gave her a doubtful look, but kicked the door in anyway. No one was going to stop him. The ringbearers were giving him a wide berth, and any Men awake were huddling in their beds, too terrified to move.  
"Someone's home," Yanta said, seeing four full beds. "I'm surprised they're not awake, what with all this noise we're making. Must've passed out."  
"Not for long," Melkor hissed. "Each of you, take a bed."  
Yanta nodded and moved to stand near one of the beds. Ceure selected the one across from her, and Metima and Melkor took the last two.   
As one, the Nazgul and Dark Lord raised their swords and then plunged them down. Yanta watched the blankets, waiting for dark blood to well up, perhaps splattering her with the liquid.  
Nothing happened.  
Yanta stabbed again. The blade went clean through the bed, but there was nothing. "What is this?" she snarled, snatching the blankets aside.  
Pillows. It was just a bunch of pillows.  
"Tricked!" Melkor snarled. So he'd discovered it too. "Who did this?" he roared, and he looked very much the Dark Lord of legend.  
"Don't look at me!" Yanta snapped. "I just knew this was the Halfling room! That's all!"  
"I thought you said this was where the Ring was," Melkor hissed.  
"I thought. I wasn't sure. This whole place reeks."  
Melkor stared at her for a while. "You're lying," he said at last. "We can still catch the Ring though. Find it. Now." He glanced over at one of the mangled beds and casually overturned it.  
"I'll go do that," Yanta muttered, fleeing the room as fast as she could. Even she, even a ringbearer, could feel the intensity of the Dark Lord's fury. He was close to snapping, and Yanta didn't want to be around when he did.  
Creeping through the darkened inn like a shadow, Yanta sniffed the air at every door. She could only imagine what a fright she was giving the inhabitants. She doubted there was a single person asleep in the whole inn.  
Reaching the top floor, she started down the hallway, but then came to a halt as she saw a flicker of movement. A man stepped out of the shadows.  
"Nazgul," he said.  
"Get back in your room before I cut off your head."  
"I wish you to leave this place. You have no reason to listen to me, I know, but –"  
"But nothing. Get out of my way," Yanta snapped. "Unless you can tell me where the Ring is."  
"I can't, but you don't want your dark master to find it."  
"Damn right I don't, but I don't really have a choice in the matter, do I? Sounds like you know where it is though. Tell me."  
"He won't tell you."  
Yanta jumped at least a foot in the air and spun around to see Morgoth standing in the darkness, his pale face staring out with its black eyes focused on the man.  
"You are a Ranger of the North," the first Dark Lord continued.  
"And you are no Nazgul," the Ranger said. "You're a far greater power than any who serve the Dark Lord. Many would think themselves correct in naming you the Witch-King of Angmar, but I know better."  
"And I know your voice, Ranger. Many a long year has passed since I last heard it, and it's grown somewhat since then, but I never forget a voice. I can even hear the trill of Luthien in it, far, far in the distance."  
The Ranger inclined his head in acknowledgment.   
"The Heir!" Yanta gasped. "You're the Heir of Isildur!"  
"The last in all Arda," Melkor said. "Blessed by Luthien's blood. Blessed, the elves say. Blessed, the Valar tell them for they fear the truth. Cursed, little Man. Cursed. You're tainted with the blood that I drank and defiled."  
"Ever were you a liar, Morgoth," the Ranger said. "I see the long years haven't done you improvement."  
There was an awful gleam in Melkor's eye. Even Yanta shrank away. What was the Dark Lord going to do?   
"The body I wear belonged to a man of Numenor once. Nephew of Elendil, descendant of Elros Tar-Minyatur, son of Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Luthien Tinuviel! Wherever her blood is, mine is also! Deadly poison and eternal corruption! You seek to unite the lost kingdoms, little Heir, but I find this shape tiring. How much better to be you!" Melkor lunged forward, his teeth bared in a snarl.  
Yanta tripped him.  
"Oops," she said as he slammed into the ground, hitting it so hard his teeth rattled.  
The Heir looked at him for a moment, then he looked at Yanta.  
"I'm so clumsy sometimes," she said. "Gosh, looks like I knocked him clean out."  
"Why are you doing this, Nazgul?" the Heir asked. He paused, then laughed. "I see Sauron picked a fine group of helpers! It isn't just Khamul!"  
"What about Khamul?" Yanta asked.  
The Heir shook his head. "As I seem to say so much, we'll meet again under worse circumstances."  
"You're just going to leave?" Yanta asked. "You don't care about what he said? I think he wanted to get your mind or something."  
The Heir shrugged. "He didn't."  
"Yeah. All right." Am I just going to let him go? Yanta wondered. "Hey! You don't know where the Ring is, do you?"  
"Haven't the faintest idea."  
"Right." Yanta looked down at Morgoth's unmoving form, then glanced back up. The Heir was gone.  
"What happened?" Metima gasped, running up the stairs.  
"I think it's time to leave Bree," Yanta said. "Preferably before he wakes up."


	64. On the Way to Imladris

"I can't believe it! Run out by a bunch of midgets!" Khamul fumed as their horses thundered across the land.  
"I believe they are no longer following us," Vorea said, glancing behind.  
"I hope not! Those little bastards gave chase the better part of the night!"  
"We are almost beyond the Shire's borders. Shall we meet up with Morgoth and the others?"  
"Dammit, but I think we have to. Nobody'll be pleased if we just go off to some random place. Hey. Here's a stupid question, but I'm going to ask it anyway. Can you find the Ring, Aica?"  
"No," Aica said. "If I could, don't you think I'd've done it before now?"  
"I don't know."  
"I have to know who I want to see. There're tons of Halflings."  
"So you can't do anything the easy way. All right, fine. We're going to have to do it the hard way."  
"What's that?"  
"A Halfling had, and presumably still has, the Ring. He lived in the Shire, but he's left. Why?"  
"Because he knows we're after him," Aica said.  
"Yes," Khamul said. "But who told him?"  
"Gandalf," Vorea said. "We met him on Amon Sul and fought with him briefly."  
"You fought Gandalf?!"  
"Indeed. He fought well, and beat us soundly."  
"He just had some flashy tricks," Aica snarled.  
"He escaped in a burst of light," Vorea explained.  
"Never knew he had it in him," Khamul muttered. "It must've been Gandalf then who warned the Halfling."  
"Where is the Halfling going now?"   
"I don't know!"  
"Think logically," Vorea said. "There is only one safe haven in all northern Arda."  
"Rivendell?"  
Vorea nodded. "He will make for Imladris, but he would be a fool to do it alone. Gandalf would suffer no fool to bear the Ring."  
"So he's got friends. Who?"  
"Likely some loyal allies from the Shire."  
"Halflings?" Aica sneered.   
"They would offer no protection against us. Gandalf knows that. Therefore, perhaps a squadron of Rangers will guard the Ringbearer."  
"A squadron?" Khamul laughed. "First of all, they don't have that many to spare. Second, that would attract far too much attention. Probably one or two." Like Aragorn? she thought. Yes, just like him. Probably be him too.  
"It is a dangerous journey," Vorea said. "But a necessary one. In Imladris he will be safe for a time."  
"Well, looks like we've got to beat him there then."  
"Nobody's on the road for miles ahead of us," Aica said, looking into the palantir. It was unnerving how she could do that even while riding at full speed.  
"The straightest way would take them through Bree."  
"That's where Morgoth's going."  
"Dammit. Looks like we're going to meet him." Khamul scowled. She would have preferred to never look upon the twisted features of Morion. She could still make him out sometimes in that horrible face. It was like he'd been nothing but a puppet and the puppetmaster had finally claimed his own.  
"You know where a great place for an ambush would be?" Aica asked, watching the palantir.  
"Where?"  
"Weathertop."  
"I hate that place."  
"We won a great victory there," Vorea reminded her.  
"But we also got defeated there," Khamul argued. "And the palantir was lost."  
"What does it matter? Victory was at last achieved. Arnor was destroyed."  
"For a time. The Heir's still alive. Somewhere." Somewhere nearby, probably. Dammit, I'm going to end up killing him, aren't I? I don't want to do that. Why can't someone else? Someone who's not Morgoth. Valar, not Morgoth. Nobody deserves to get killed by him.  
The gray lands of lost Arnor blurred together. Khamul had been here before and it all looked the same. It didn't matter how many thousands of years passed, the place always looked the same.   
"There they are," Vorea said one afternoon, pointing at five black horses riding toward them.  
Khamul growled. She could feel the presence of Morgoth even from here. Was he getting more powerful? Strong enough to challenge Sauron? Perhaps. But if he had the Ring, there would be no contest. No contest at all.  
"I see you did not find the Halfling nor the Ring," Melkor said, shooting a glare at Khamul.  
"No," Khamul said. She decided not to mention the house and the chase from the Shire.  
"He escaped us in Bree as well." This time the Dark Lord glared at Yanta, who looked pointedly elsewhere.  
"What did you do?" Khamul muttered.  
"This will be a tale," Vorea said.  
"We're just going to sit here and talk?" Aica asked. "I know where he is."  
"You do?" Khamul snapped.  
"Where?" Melkor hissed.  
"Only one place he can be going, huh? These lands aren't safe, and he's heading for Rivendell. There's a nice shelter on the way to Rivendell."  
"Amon Sul," Melkor said. He didn't say another word but spurred his horse onward toward the east.


	65. Attack on Weathertop

"Maybe we were wrong," Khamul said, looking out at the craggy rock. It had stood the test of time. The tower atop it, however, had not. There was hardly anything left of the proud walls, valiant statues. Nothing but broken stone and, if you looked hard enough, scorched rocks.  
"They would not be fools enough to light a fire," Melkor said.   
"No horses nearby. At least, I don't hear any."  
"Amon Sul stands out in the land," Vorea said. "If their guide is wise, perhaps he led them away."  
"If there's a guide at all," Khamul said. Please don't let it be Aragorn. The man can't possibly be stupid enough to get involved in something like this.  
The nine Nazgul watched the fortress, eyes sharp in the dark. The moon was covered by a thick layer of clouds, but the ruined fortress still stood out against the night sky. A spot of utter darkness on night.  
And then, a burst of light exploded on the world of darkness. A flickering, dancing fire. It was on Weathertop, like a beacon for all the world to see.  
"I guess they're there after all," Khamul muttered.  
"We cannot take our horses up to the tower," Melkor said.  
"They don't wander off."  
Melkor shot her a sharp look. "I fear that you may be mistaken," he said. "So for that reason, I shall leave you and Ancalime to watch them."  
"What?!"  
"Aica and Ringe will scout the rest of the fortress while I and the others lead the assault against the creatures."  
"I am not watching the damn horses!" Khamul yelled.   
"You are," Melkor said.  
"I am not!"  
The Dark Lord snarled, his eyes as black as Amon Sul against the sky. "You are."  
"Fine," Khamul muttered.  
As they rode toward the fortress, Khamul heard faint screams of terror. Bunch of weak little cowards, she thought. They're going to get killed and then Morgoth'll have the Ring. Why can't they fight, the little bastards?   
The thought was ludicrous. A bunch of Halflings driving off five Nazgul, not to mention Morgoth himself. Of course, there had been those Halflings in the Shire…  
"Do not do anything stupid," Melkor warned as he dismounted.  
"Don't worry about me," Khamul said. "Bring me back a Hobbit head."  
"I would advise you to do as he asks," Vorea said quietly. "The Dark Lord shall soon rise again with the attainment of the Ring."  
Khamul snorted. "I'm not scared of him now and I still won't be if he ever gets the Ring." Not true, of course. Not true at all. But still, it made her sound brave.  
Aica gave her a sneer as she and Ringe went off to scout the rest of the fortress. They'd been given jobs. Melkor trusted them more than he trusted Khamul. Wise move there, but he'd've done better not to trust any of them.   
"It's a nice night," Ancalime said once they were alone.  
"Shut up."  
"You always tell me that."  
"Because you talk too much."  
"I don't."  
"You do. Now be quiet! I need to think."  
"About what?"  
Khamul growled. "None of your damn business," she snapped. She couldn't let Morgoth get the Ring. It just wasn't something she could deal with. Sauron, maybe, but not Morgoth. Besides, he wouldn't have a use for the ringbearers anymore.   
"Hobbits'd be damn stupid to travel by themselves," Khamul said, searching the night.  
"I suppose they had someone to guide them," Ancalime said.  
"Yeah… Which way did Aica and Ringe go?"  
"Oh…I think they went that way." Ancalime gestured to the right.  
"Okay… You know, that leaves the left of the fortress unchecked. Might be some kind of nasty thing hiding there. Better go check it and make sure there's nothing there."  
"That's nice of you," Ancalime said. "I'll just watch the horses."  
"Good."  
If luck was on her side, Aica and Ringe would still be far away, taking their time with snooping around the ruins. If luck was on her side, the guide – who Khamul was now beginning to hope was Aragorn – would be doing some looking of his own. That's what she'd do. Drop off the Hobbits and have a look around.  
"Hey!" she hissed, spotting a figure.  
The figure jumped and started to draw its sword. "Khamul!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"  
"It's not just me," Khamul said. "Take a guess as to how many else."  
"All nine?"  
"Yup, but you're just going to have to deal with five. What're you doing getting mixed up in this anyway?"  
"It is my duty," Aragorn said. "The Ring needs protection."  
"From me?"  
"Yes, from you. I wouldn't trust you anywhere near it."  
"Smart man. Except that while you're wasting time talking to me, Morgoth's trying to skewer your Hobbit."  
As if on cue, there was a bloodcurdling scream from the fortress.  
"Frodo," Aragorn gasped.  
"Well?" Khamul snarled. "You going to do something or just stand there?"  
"You aren't going to stop me?"  
"I'm not even supposed to be here."  
Aragorn didn't waste another second. He bounded up the hill as surefooted as a mountain goat. Khamul watched him. "Try fire!" she shouted after him. "That's sure to hurt Morgoth's eyes!"  
Returning to the horses, Khamul watched as bright light flared and there were unearthly shrieks from the ringbearers.  
"Oh dear," Ancalime said. "It doesn't look like they're doing very well, does it?"  
"Oh, ain't that a shame," Khamul said. "Oh, and here they come, running back with their tails between their legs. Hello!" she called, waving. "Horses are safe. Not a one tried to go running off."  
"Shut up," Melkor snapped. "It doesn't matter anyway. Blasted Ranger."  
"What happened?"  
"Their guide appeared, a Ranger of the North. He might have been the Heir of Isildur."  
"Exciting."  
"He had a torch with him, and was very skilled with a blade."  
"I didn't like the swords the midgets had," Yanta said. "They smacked of magic."  
"Because they were!" Melkor snarled. "Those were enchanted blades out of Arnor! They must've raided a barrow for them."  
"The one with the Ring was a pushover," Yanta said. "Oh, wait, sorry Melkor, didn't mean it like that."  
"What happened?" Khamul asked, almost cackling with glee. Had the Dark Lord been injured?  
"Little devil stabbed him in the foot and started screaming Elbereth and all that."  
Melkor shuddered at the mention of the Queen of the Valar. "Never say that name again," he said.  
"I won't. Can't guarantee the Halfling won't if we meet him again though."  
"We will in time. The Morgul blade snapped in his wound. There's a piece working its way toward his heart as we speak. And when it reaches the organ he shall die and rise again as a wraith."  
"Can he bring the Ring to us?" Khamul asked.  
"I believe he can," Melkor said, a faint smile on his lips.  
Aica and Ringe came running back after a minute. "What happened?" Aica asked.  
"They got run off," Khamul said.  
Aica snickered and Ringe glanced at Melkor.  
"The Halfling will be dead soon," the Dark Lord said. "We shall pursue him from a distance now. If the opportunity arises, I would like the head of the Ranger. As well as the other Halflings."  
"Did another one try to kill you?" Khamul asked with mock sympathy.  
"I disliked the look in the eye of one," Melkor said. "I had thought his blade not to have existed either. Just to be merely a metaphor."  
"A metaphor? For what?"  
"Gondor. The markings on blades of both kingdoms were similar."  
"What's he talking about?" Khamul muttered to Vorea.  
"I do not know," Vorea said, looking with some concern at the Dark Lord.   
"How many Halflings were there?"  
"Four. One with the Ring, one fat one, and two smaller ones. One of the small ones appeared quite cowardly to my eyes, but the other looked to have some steel in him."  
"That the one Morgoth doesn't like?"  
Vorea nodded. "His blade appeared nothing out of the ordinary to me. Enchanted, perhaps, but the same as the others."  
"Well, well, well. Halflings with magic swords. What'll the world think of next?"


	66. Betrayed

There could be no doubt now. The Ringbearer was making for Rivendell, though Melkor hoped he'd be slowed by the Morgul wound. A fine invention. Morion'd had a good mind. Such a shame he was superfluous.  
As he rode through the night and into the day, the Dark Lord wondered what Morion was doing in the gray lands of the Land of the Lost. Perhaps he was trying to reclaim his body. A futile task.  
An involuntarily shudder ran through Melkor. The Halfling's blade had alarmed him. He was a Vala. He had foresight. Not so much, in these troubled times, but he could see danger. He knew Eorl was danger, could smell it in the Land even before the firebrand had been born.  
He had seen two swords. One of somewhat crude make, by Men lesser than the Numenoreans. Weak, pathetic, like the Haradrim, the Easterlings, the Dunlendings. The Rohirrim. And he had seen a sword of Gondor, no, Arnor. He knew it was Arnor now, for he had seen the blade itself. Before he had thought they were meant to represent the two countries. Rohan and Gondor. Fear them. Fear? No, never fear. Destroy them lest they trouble the Dark Lord.  
And now the swords were real. It eased the Dark Lord's heart somewhat, as all he had to do was kill the Halfling. And here he had been worried that there would be some great hero involved. No. Just a Halfling. Just a Halfling and a worthless Man. Nothing to fear.  
After all, no man could slay him. No man or Man.  
"We've been chasing this Halfling forever," Yanta complained. "I've yet to see a single sign of him."  
"This is the only road to Imladris," Melkor hissed. He was getting tired of the complaints, of the subtle backstabbing. He was growing tired of the Nazgul.   
"They're probably hidden in the forest," Khamul said.  
"They must get on the road in order to cross into the Valley," Melkor said. "We'll catch them there."  
Khamul sighed. "What if we miss them again?"  
"You have a problem with orders? Fine. Ride ahead. Take a few Nazgul and go catch the Ring yourself."  
"I think I will." Khamul spurred her horse forward and it quickly sprinted away from the pack. Once she was a little ways away, Khamul glanced back to see who was traveling with her.  
No one.  
"Those bastards!" Khamul snarled. She was alone. Even Vorea had deserted her, or, at least, the third ringbearer did not wish to been seen as betraying her lord. "Bastards!"  
Cursing in fury, Khamul kicked her horse. It galloped down the road, putting as much distance as it could between it and the other ringbearers. Khamul didn't pay attention to the woods, didn't care what might be hiding in the trees. Who gave a damn if the Ringbearer was nearby? She didn't care anymore.  
Betrayed. Deserted. She might as well be the ninth Nazgul now. It didn't matter that she was second only to a Vala. She was too dangerous, too untrustworthy.  
"I'll get him for this," she hissed. "I'll get him." She wasn't sure herself whether it was Morgoth or Sauron she meant. Both. She'd get them both. See if she didn't.  
Sometime the next day Khamul came to a bridge. The Last Bridge, halfway between Bree and Rivendell. And still no sign of the Halfling, not that she'd been looking.  
The horse came to a screeching halt in front of the Bridge. "What's going on?" Khamul snarled, looking this way and that. Was there someone there?  
Indeed there was. Out of the forest on the other side stepped none other than Glorfindel and a small company of elves.  
"You can't stop me from crossing this bridge," Khamul said.  
"I believe I can," Glorfindel said. "Go back to the darkness, foul shadow."  
"Shadow? Shadow?! I'll show you what a shadow can do!" Khamul drew her sword. "I'll cut your heads off and kick them into the river!"  
An arrow whizzed above her head, missing her by inches. These elves meant business, but if they'd been smart, they would've been shooting to kill already. Not that that would've done them an ounce of good.  
"It's been a long time, Glorfindel!" Khamul called, trying to tamp down her anger. She felt like slaughtering the whole pack of elves, but sooner or later Melkor was going to get his act together and find the Ring. You couldn't run forever, and you certainly couldn't hide from the Dark Vala.  
The other elves turned to look at their leader with suspicion. "You know her?" one hissed. "A Nazgul!"  
Glorfindel glared at Khamul. "I thought you would change, Khamul," he said.  
"Don't be an idiot. Anyway, you owe me. Remember? Who guided you back to the inhabited lands of Middle-Earth after the Valar dumped you in the middle of nowhere?"  
There was an increase in mutterings among the elves and several moved away from Glorfindel.  
"You are correct," the elf said. "However, I will not let you pass."  
"I do remember you adding a lot of provisions to that agreement. And don't worry, I don't want anyone dead."  
"Then what do you want?"  
What do I want? Khamul thought. Good question. I'm not sure myself. Wait…I've got an idea. "That's a nice broach you've got there," she said, pointing at a beryl stone pinned at Glorfindel's neck.  
"What of it?"  
"Give it here."  
"What?"  
"Hey, it's a good deal. You get to pay off a debt, and I get a fancy rock. Oh, and the Witch-King's on his way. I bet he's just dying to see you again."  
Glorfindel hesitated, then took off the broach. "I don't understand why you want the stone."  
"I've got my reasons," Khamul said, accepting the broach and tucking it safely away in a pocket. "Now, I've got to get back to my not-so-much friends. Try not to die when they attack."  
"What was that about?" one elf asked.  
"Will she work some evil magic with the stone?" another whispered.  
"I do not have the faintest idea," Glorfindel admitted, scratching his head.


	67. Disaster

"So you're back," Melkor said as Khamul rode up.   
"Knew you couldn't stay away," Aica said.  
"Shut up. There're some elves up there on the Last Bridge."  
"Indeed. Any that I know?"  
"Glorfindel."  
"Ah." Melkor licked his lips. "I am looking forward to that meeting."  
"I confess myself surprised that you lack an arrow wound through the head," Vorea said.  
"They're terrible shots," Khamul said.  
"I see." Vorea didn't look convinced.  
"Any particular reason you didn't deign to come with me?"  
"I serve Lord Sauron," Vorea said, giving Khamul a sad look. "I see we are heading for a forked path."  
"And you'll take the one that Sauron's blundering into," Khamul snapped. "What happens if it's a dead end, huh? What happens then?"  
"The fate of the Nazgul is bound to the fate of the Ring," Vorea said. "Sauron is our lord, Khamul. You would do well to finally realize that."  
Khamul growled. "Over my dead body."  
"I pray it will not come to that."  
It gave Khamul a start when she realized Vorea was serious. "You're crazy," she muttered. "You just…you don't understand."  
"Understand what?"  
"Understand what this world will be like if one of them gets the Ring."  
"What would you do then? If the Ring is destroyed, we die."  
"I wish it'd just get lost. Then we could conquer Middle-Earth the old-fashioned way." Khamul smiled wistfully, the first time Vorea had ever seen such a smile. "I like the old-fashioned way."  
"You are changing, Khamul," Vorea said. "If you have not changed already. You are changing and I cannot tell what you are becoming."  
"I'll still cut off the head of anyone who gets in my way."  
Vorea nodded. "That is well," she said. "For the time being."  
I'm not changing, Khamul thought. I'm still looking out for myself first and foremost, just like I always have. That involved following Sauron for a while, but now our paths are diverging. Fine, Vorea got a bit of it right, but I'm still the selfish bastard I've always been.  
They reached the Last Bridge about an hour later. The elves had planted themselves firmly on the fragile wooden structure, bows raised.  
"Destroy them," Melkor hissed.   
The Nine drew their swords and rushed the elves. A few arrows flew, grazing horses and riders, but the elves fled in terror as the power of the rings bore down on them. Melkor probably had more to do with it though. The Dark Vala, the terror of the First Age, arisen and riding once more.   
Glorfindel managed to hold his ground longer than the others, but terror showed plainly in his face and sweat trickled down his forehead. He'd never faced something like this before. A balrog, yes, but nothing like this. Nothing like this fear.  
Just as they were crossing the bridge, Khamul reached into her pocket and took out the rock. She tossed it on the bridge where it lay, spinning and glittering. A green stone. A green stone given to her by an elf. Elfstone. Elessar.  
Aragorn would find it. Khamul had no doubts about that. What he did with it after that was his own business, but Khamul had a feeling that whatever decision the great and wise made regarding the Ring, Aragorn would follow. And then he'd come to the south, Minas Tirith, and claim his crown.  
It seemed only right that he should wear the crown of the Reunited Kingdom before he died.  
After soundly the chasing the elves away, the Nazgul slowed on the road, scowling into shadows, watching for any sign of movement.   
"No elves and no Halflings," Khamul said. "Looks like we lost them."  
"I don't smell anything," Yanta said, sniffing the air.  
"They are heading for Imladris," Melkor hissed. "We will find them."  
"Sound quite determined there," Khamul said.  
Melkor ignored her.   
There was little talk among the ringbearers as they rode. Days passed and Khamul was getting bored. They were almost to Rivendell, which they wouldn't be able to pass into. Not yet, at least. Not yet.  
Melkor pulled his horse to a halt at the edge of a river. "There." He pointed to the opposite bank. "That is where the power of the elves begins."  
"Well," Khamul said, "seems to me we should just wait here for them to come to us."  
"The Morgul blade will be close to the Halfling's heart by now," Melkor said. "He will have to reach safety soon or it will be too late." He looked back down the path. "We return the way we came."  
"What?" Khamul snapped.  
"Follow me!"  
The Nazgul turned their horses around and headed back down the road. Khamul hung back, watching the water. She didn't like the looks of it. It was far too shallow to provide a serious defense against the monsters that might try to disturb the sanctuary of the elves. So why not strengthen it? Add a few watchtowers on the far bank. Towers with sharp-eyed elves with even sharper arrows.  
"There's magic in that river," Aica hissed, sensing her thoughts. Khamul didn't like her thoughts sensed, least of all by Aica.  
"Who cares?" Khamul snarled. "Magic's never done me any damage before."  
Aica snorted and spurred her horse ahead so that she was riding by Morgoth. It made an unpleasant picture. The Dark Lord riding with Aica at his right. Once it had been Morion riding like that, with Khamul by his side.  
Morion was dead. It was Morgoth now, and Khamul had fallen out of favor, leaving a bit of a power vacuum. Seemed Aica was going to fill it.  
"There!" came the cry almost an hour later.   
Khamul strained to see what it was. The horses ahead of her came to a grinding halt and she pulled hard on the reins to avoid running into Ceure.   
"What is it?" she hissed.  
"The Halfling!" Ceure gasped.  
An arrow whizzed out of nowhere, nicking Metima's forehead before burying itself in the ground.  
"White-fletched arrows," Khamul muttered, looking at the quivering shaft. "I think it's Glorfindel."  
"What's he doing here?"  
"Stopping us from getting the – Whoa!"   
A blur of white shot between the Nazgul. The horses snorted and bucked, every bit as alarmed as the riders.  
"What was that?" Yanta gasped.  
"The Halfling!" Melkor roared. "After him!"  
And then they were going back the way they'd come, thundering after the blur of a horse. It was an elven horse, and it had quite a bit of speed on it, but against the horses of the Nazgul? It was only a matter of time before they caught it.  
Khamul cursed and urged her horse forward. She had to be the one to get the Ring. Not Vorea, not Aica, and certainly not Morgoth. It had to be her. And then she'd have power. Power beyond all reckoning.  
She was neck in neck with Vorea, right behind Melkor and Aica. She just needed a bit more speed.  
Foam was flying from her horse's mouth. Its eyes rolled wildly. It had pushed itself to its limits and beyond. Khamul started to slow and she cursed and slapped the reins.  
Morgoth shot her a look of triumph.  
"Dammit!" Khamul snarled. "Damn it all!"  
The horses came to a halt at the edge of the river bordering Rivendell. The Halfling was already across but he wasn't going any farther. He was pale and shaking, his skin an unhealthy white. Still, he managed to hold up a sword in one trembling hand.  
"Give me the Ring," Melkor hissed, riding out into the river. That seemed, to Khamul, to be an exceptionally stupid thing to do.  
"You shall have neither the Ring nor me," the Halfling said. He was almost drooling, and what was gathering at the edge of his mouth looked quite bright green.   
"Give me the Ring," Melkor snarled, riding farther into the river. Aica and Vorea began to follow him.  
"I'm going to stay right here," Khamul said. "Don't trust that river a bit."  
"Same," Yanta said, nodding.   
"We've got company," Metima said, looking behind.  
"What?" Khamul whirled around and saw Glorfindel and Aragorn standing nearby, torches in hand. "You bastards!" she hissed.  
"Into the river with you!" Glorfindel shouted, advancing, waving the torches.  
Ceure's horse was spooked and rushed into the water. Ringe followed her, and Metima slowly edged toward the river.  
"There's just two of them!" Khamul yelled, drawing her sword. She wasn't going to kill Aragorn, but she had no compunctions about Glorfindel.  
"I'm sorry," Aragorn said. He waved the torch and the horses went mad.  
Within seconds, Khamul and Yanta were in the water, struggling to control the horses.  
"What was that all about?" she snapped. "Why do they want us in the water so bad?"  
The ground began to shake and tremble. The water started to increase in volume slowly, and then faster and faster.  
"Oh damn," Khamul muttered, looking in horror as a wall of water appeared out of nowhere, aimed right at the ringbearers.  
It hit them in seconds. Khamul was knocked off her horse and carried in a rocketing river of water downstream. It reminded her of the ride on the Fast Track in the Misty Mountains. Only it was with water and almost more unpleasant.  
Khamul finally came to rest on a stony bank. Picking herself up, she looked around. They'd come a long, long way. Oh, and there were lots of lovely jagged rocks that she'd passed by at ridiculous speeds. Lucky she'd missed them. Maybe Morgoth'd skewered himself.  
Like hideous beasts emerging from the sea, one by one the Nazgul dragged themselves onto the shore. Some had drifted farther than Khamul, and some hadn't drifted far at all. Soon they were all assembled, staring at the river.  
"Where're the horses?" Khamul asked after a while.  
"Dead," Melkor said.  
"They can't be dead. They're immortal."  
"It was a magical flood. They're dead."  
Khamul jumped to her feet. "My horse is not dead!" she exclaimed and waded into the river, searching for something.   
She found two dead horses, but neither was hers. She kept looking and found a third and fourth. And then a fifth, and a sixth. The seventh was in two pieces. The eighth was skewered on a sharp rock.  
"There's only eight!" she proclaimed happily.  
"Keep looking," Melkor said.  
At that moment, a black horse walked out of the forest. It was sopping wet, but quite alive.  
"I believe that is my horse," Khamul said.  
"Good. Give me the reins."  
"What?!"  
"The Ring is in Imladris for now and it will take quite a while for those elven fools to figure out what to do with it. In that time we have to act swiftly. I must go to Sauron," Melkor spat the name, "and return with new, better mounts."  
"Seeing as it's my horse, I'll be doing that," Khamul said.  
"I am your superior! Not to mention a Vala." Melkor's eyes were dark and further darkening rapidly. If Khamul had an ounce of sense she would've surrendered the horse. But it was her horse. Hers.   
"No." Khamul hopped onto the wet saddle. "See you in a few months." Digging her heels into the flanks, she glanced back to savor the expression on Morgoth's face as she rode away.


	68. Fell Beasts

The journey back to Mordor was thoroughly uneventful. Nothing unusual happened and no strange people were encountered. Just your average ride down Middle-Earth.  
That's what Khamul told Sauron.  
The first person she met on the road was Gollum. To call him a person might've been stretching it a bit, actually. He was muttering to himself, and catching fish out of a river.  
"What're you doing?" Khamul bellowed, leaping off her horse and tackling the deformed Hobbit.  
"Agh! Hurts us, precious! Nasty Shrieker hurts us!" Gollum whined and then started biting. Khamul gave him a good hard shake and fixed him with a fierce stare.  
"What're you doing?"  
"Finding precious," Gollum hissed. "Nasty Hobbitses has precious. We're getting it back, yes we are. Gollum, gollum!"  
"The precious is in Rivendell. You know where that is, don't you?"  
"Nasty elveses."  
"Yes, that's where the elveses are. They're going to be leaving it sometime, but it won't be for a while. A month at least."  
Gollum frowned, looking almost like he was sulking. "We doesn't wants to be in nasty cold, precious. We wants to be back under our mountain, yes we does."  
"You'll be there soon enough if you get the damn Ring!"  
"Precious!" Gollum's huge eyes lit up like lamps. "Precious! Gollum, gollum!"  
"You know where Rivendell is? The exact location?" Khamul asked.  
"Maybe we does," Gollum muttered.  
"I hope you do. You watch that place, you hear me? And when the precious leaves it, you follow it! And make sure you get that damned piece of metal!" Khamul dropped Gollum, who landed like a cat.  
"Nasty Shrieker wants us to get precious back," Gollum said to himself. Half the things he said should've just been going through his head.  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "Just don't screw this up," she warned.  
And then she was back on the road again, Gollum watching her with lamp-like eyes, waiting until she was well out of sight before he went slinking back into the shadows.  
Things were relatively calm after that. Khamul passed a man who looked suspiciously Gondorian, but she didn't pay him any mind. Probably should've stopped him and cut his head off, she thought. Ah well.  
Things got tricky once she got down into Rohan. Khamul had bypassed Isengard on her way to the Shire, but that was getting more difficult to do. The fortress dominated the land for miles. It towered above all else, staring down with an all-seeing eye. Saruman knew the Nine were abroad, and he likely knew that Sauron's lieutenant as passing close by.  
Saruman was watching, wondering what one of Them was doing here.  
Khamul decided to oblige him and stop by.  
Riding up to the gates of Isengard, Khamul found them barred, but apparently unguarded. She knew better though. There'd be orcs and goblins lurking just out of sight. Saruman was still playing the part of the dutiful guardian. For now.  
He appeared shortly on the battlements, looking down at her from a long pointed nose.  
"What business does the lieutenant of Mordor have with me?" he asked. "I've dealt with your kind enough these past few months."  
"Oh, did they make a stop on their way up north?" Khamul asked. Someone could've told her. The bastards.  
"They did," Saruman spat. He sneered. "They thought I knew where the Ring was."  
"Which you do."  
Saruman glared at her. "I cannot help but notice that you were not with them."  
"I wasn't."  
"Up north looking for the Ring?"  
"Yeah."  
"Not with your compatriots. And yet, you call yourself the second Nazgul. I think that is perhaps now inaccurate."  
Khamul growled. "Don't mess with me," she hissed. "We may be going through a bit of a rough patch, but I'm still the strongest next to…the Witch-King."  
Saruman raised an eyebrow.  
"And how about you? Betraying everything just for power? Bet the elves and Gandalf aren't too happy about that."  
"What do they matter? I am a Maia, powerful beyond reckoning. The long years have only strengthened me while they have drained everything from Gandalf. He is hardly recognizable as a Power anymore."  
"I think he's still got a bit of kick left in him," Khamul hissed.  
Saruman sneered. "Did you have a purpose for coming here, Nazgul?"  
"Better watch your back, Saruman," Khamul warned. "Never know who's going to be aiming a dagger at it now." She left him on that note, kicking her horse and heading south.  
After skirting past Minas Tirith, and crossing the Anduin at night, Khamul found herself on the road to Minas Morgul. The path was covered with the noxious little flowers and the air smelled like death.  
Not going there though, Khamul thought, gazing at the green-lit walls of the fallen Tower of the Moon.  
All semblance of life fell away as Khamul entered Mordor. The land was scorched black and covered in ash. Orodruin had been active since Sauron's return. There were even fresh lava flows here and there.  
And above it all towered the Barad-dur, being rebuilt piece by piece by industrious orcs and trolls. Even though the workers numbered in the thousands, each was watched over by Sauron, if not personally. His eye was upon them all, as it was upon everyone in the land.  
The orcs at the gate shrank away as Khamul rode up. They hadn't seen her for quite some time.  
"Take my horse to the stables and get it some food," she said, tossing the reins to one.  
"Where are the other Shriekers, lord?" one hissed. "The Dark Lord said they would be back soon. With the One."  
"That's what I'm here to talk to him about," Khamul said.  
Sauron was in the throne room. An empty throne room. He watched her approach, not saying a single word until Khamul was within ten feet of him.  
"Where are the others?"  
"Elves can do magic, did you know that?"  
"The others are alive. Where are they?" Sauron asked.  
"A magical river washed us all downstream and killed eight of the horses."  
Sauron raised an eyebrow. "Eight of the immortal horses?"  
"Weren't quite as immortal as you thought."  
"I see. I take it you do not have the Ring."  
"No."  
"Do you know where it is?"  
"Rivendell."  
Sauron cursed. "There are powerful beings in Rivendell. If one were to claim it for himself…"  
"They won't. They're just a pack of cowards."  
"This is dangerous. It cannot remain there." Sauron stood up from his throne and started toward the flight of stairs to his office. Khamul followed him. "I shall summon the goblins to battle. They will lay siege to Imladris and claim the Ring."  
"Think the elves might have a problem with that."  
"They will be destroyed."  
Khamul shrugged. "All right."  
Sauron spun around to face her. "Do you think you have a better idea?"  
"How about sending some new horses so we can catch up with them when they do leave Rivendell? And they will. No elf wants their homeland under siege. They'll be kicked out of there so quick it'll make your head spin."  
"Horses?" Sauron sneered. He laughed. "I can give you far better than horses."  
I don't like the sound of that, Khamul thought, following Sauron down the stairs now. They came back to the throne room, and then descended again, down into the dungeons.  
"Where're we going?" Khamul asked.  
"You wanted new mounts. Horses are rather impractical now, wouldn't you agree?"  
"I wouldn't. Horses are fine."  
"Compared to these, they are nothing."  
"And what exactly are 'these'?" Khamul had the feeling that Sauron was smiling his creepy smile.  
Sauron didn't answer but continued his descent. From somewhere below them there was a thunderous roar that shook the stairs.  
"What was that?" Khamul asked, trying her best not to sound disturbed in the least.  
Sauron still didn't answer and Khamul was beginning to get annoyed. Just another flight of stairs, she thought. Then I'll leave. I'm not going to put up with this!  
They reached the bottom of the stairs at last, and Khamul's jaw dropped. "What…what…what…"  
"These are called…well, I haven't thought up a name for them. A name seems to diminish them. Call them Fell Beasts. It seems appropriate enough."  
The Fell Beasts – the creatures, the things, the monsters – were enormous. Each one had a room all to itself, which was only barely big enough to contain it. Their wings could hardly open a fourth of the way, but from what she could see, they were like bats' wings.  
The things themselves were completely devoid of feathers or hair, seeming to have plain skin, though far thicker, surely. Their long narrow necks ended abruptly in a sharp curved beak like an eagle's.  
"Where did you find them?" Khamul asked.  
Sauron shrugged. "There are many things of the ancient world in the mountains of Mordor." He looked at his lieutenant. "You would do well to leave the horse behind and ride one of these back to your comrades."  
"Ride one? Ride?! You're crazy!"  
"That is their purpose. There are nine here. Will you take one?"  
Khamul wasn't entirely sure if it was an offer or command. Still, she knew her answer. "No. My horse is still alive and I'm going to ride it."  
Sauron looked away from her, gazing at the monsters. "I cannot help but notice that while the other ringbearers have transferred their loyalties to Melkor, you have not."  
"He's a fallen Vala who tortured and killed Morion."  
"Killed may be an exaggeration."  
"Same difference."  
"Still. You would do well to –"  
"Shut up," Khamul snapped. "I don't need you to tell me what I'd do well by. You think I don't know it? If I was smart, I'd just fawn over Morgoth and everything'd be fine."  
"You are intelligent," Sauron said. "You are just a fool. A headstrong fool."  
"I'm going back to the north," Khamul snarled, making for the stairs.  
"True. But you are not going back to Rivendell."  
"Good."  
"Head to Dol Guldor. There is a large accumulation of orcs there, along with several thousand in the forest and the nearby mountains."  
"What'd you want me to do with them?"  
"Lay siege to Lorien."  
Khamul laughed. "That won't work."  
"In all probability, no. But it will distract them until I regain the Ring. And then I shall destroy them."  
Khamul shrugged. "As long as I don't have to see Morgoth."  
"You won't."  
"Good." She started up the stairs.  
"Khamul?"  
"What?"  
"Never speak to me in that tone or with those words again."  
Khamul sighed. "All right," she said.  
"What did you say?" Sauron asked in a quiet voice.  
"I meant, yes, sir, oh glorious lord of Arda."  
"I am beginning to understand why you are in your current predicament."  
"It's only a predicament if I don't like it," Khamul snarled.  
"I can always find another second ringbearer," Sauron warned.  
"I'd like to see you try it," Khamul hissed.  
"When I have the Ring –"  
"If you have the Ring."  
Sauron's eyes darkened. "I will have the Ring, Khamul, and when I do, you had better be in my good graces."


	69. Complications

There were screams of terror. Townspeople shrank away from shadows that blotted out the sun. Huge, monstrous beasts filled the sky, moving north steadily, heedless of borders, both man-made and natural. They flew easily through Mordor and into Gondor, soared gracefully above the Misty Mountains. Finally, in the dark of night, they came to rest as lightly as owls by the banks of a river.  
"About time," Melkor hissed. "He took long enough."  
"What are these things?" Yanta asked.  
"Creatures as old as time itself. Hurry up and get on."  
"What? We're going to ride them?"  
"Of course." Melkor easily swung himself up onto one of the beasts. The creature shuddered and moved its neck back and forth.  
"I don't like them," Ancalime said.  
"Get up."  
Ancalime nervously approached one of the creatures and touched it. "It's so cold!"  
"Get on them!" Melkor snapped. "We don't have eternity!"  
One by one the ringbearers mounted the Fell Beasts. The creatures seemed entirely fine with this arrangement, but only Melkor among the riders was pleased, or even comfortable.  
"He should have broken these out a long time ago," the Dark Lord growled. "We would've had the Ring by now."  
"This is weird," Yanta muttered.  
Aica was clutching something to her chest and glaring at anyone who looked at her too closely. "Where are we going?" she asked.  
"We cannot attack Imladris, unfortunately," Melkor said. "So we'll have to make do with scouting the area. On these beasts, we'll have little trouble seeing all the land."  
"We're spies now?" Metima asked. "I thought that was Aica's job."  
Aica glared at her. "I can't see everything," she snapped.  
"All the land will be visible to us from these," Melkor said. "We can bring terror from the skies without ever having to put ourselves in danger."  
"What danger?" Yanta asked. "We're immortal."  
Melkor was quiet for a moment. "Indeed," he agreed. "Quite immortal." The two swords shone in his memory. He had to have that Halfling killed. Had to claim that sword for himself. And then he had to find the other, the pathetic Rohirrim who held the other sword. He would kill him, and then the prophecy would be complete. There would be nothing that could touch him.  
*  
"Open the gate!"  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"…Who are you?"  
"You know who I am!" Khamul bellowed. "Now open this gate right now or I'll bring 'em down around your ears!"  
"We don't want to," an orc said, poking its head above the ramparts, staring down with little red eyes at the Nazgul.  
"You heard me, dammit! Open the gates!"  
"How do we know you're a real Shrieker?" another orc asked. "You could be...a spy. From the elves."  
"Do I look like a spy from the elves? No! So open the gate! Now!"  
There was a muffled conversation between the orcs. "Can you give us a few minutes?" one asked.  
"No! Open the gate!"  
Slowly, the great gate of Dol Guldur ground open with a terrible squeal of rusted bolts.  
"Has anyone kept this place up since Sauron left?" Khamul asked, riding in.  
Two cowering orcs met her, the same ones from the wall. Khamul fixed them with her best threatening glare.  
"You might've been a dangerous enemy," one muttered.  
"I am. Fortunately, I'm not your enemy. Now…where is everyone?"  
The two orcs exchanged looks and shrugged. "They must be…inside. Eating."  
"Where is everyone?"  
"Uh…"  
"Are they gone?" Khamul asked.   
"…Maybe."  
"Several thousand orcs just walked out of Dol Guldur? Did they do it the moment Sauron left? They did, didn't they? Those bastards!"  
"Most of them went to the Misty Mountains," the first orc said. "We just stayed behind because it's so crowded there."  
"And there's the balrog," the second orc added.  
"Oh, yes, the balrog. Can't forget about him. He's very nasty, and those goblins he's got are positively vicious. Kind of brainwashed though. They think he's some kind of Vala."  
"Close enough," Khamul muttered. "So everyone's in the Misty Mountains except for you two. Anybody else in the forest?"  
"There're some spiders further north."  
"Anything else?"  
The orcs scratched their heads. "I suppose there're some of us scattered around. Harrying the elves and all that."  
"But no substantial force."  
"No."  
"Well, that's no good."  
"Why did you come here anyway?"  
"To rally an army of orcs and lead them against Lorien."  
"Oh."  
Khamul nodded. "Yeah. Oh." What was she going? Dol Guldur was empty, and the closest den of orcs was in the Misty Mountains, currently presided over by a vicious balrog who didn't think twice of ripping Nazgul to shreds.  
Except there was someone else in the Misty Mountains. Well, not someone exactly. More like something.  
"I've got an idea," Khamul said.  
"Is it a good one?" the first orc asked.  
"I don't know. You two stay here and shut the gates. Don't open them to anyone except me."  
The orcs saluted. "You can count on us!"  
"I better, otherwise you two are dead meat." Khamul turned her horse around and rode out the way she came.  
It was a longshot. Quite a longshot indeed. Caradhras had its own problems, specifically, the balrog. But hadn't it been working for a very long time to get that problem sorted out? Well, Caradhras's problem was now Khamul's problem. That balrog was standing in the way of her getting her army. So it had to go.


	70. Durin's Tower

"Ohh, there're some people," Aica giggled, pointing down at a line of travelers.  
"Are those children?" Ringe asked, leaning over the side of the beast. Aica pulled him back firmly.  
"Don't do that, you idiot," she snapped.   
"Why not? I think we should go back. Those people looked suspicious."  
"Don't be an idiot. They didn't look suspicious at all. They looked completely harmless."  
"There sure were a lot of them. And they had horses."  
Aica rolled her eyes and slapped the Fell Beast's reins. It snarled and squirmed but went higher and faster.   
She liked this a lot better than horses. They were faster, for one thing, and for another, no one else traveled like this. Besides, they flew. Flew!  
After several disastrous attempts, Ringe's Fell Beast flat out refused to fly him anywhere, so Aica was forced to drag him along while the disobedient creature returned to Mordor. Not that she minded. Too much. It was rather lonely without anyone to talk to. Still, she wouldn't be telling Ringe that.  
"Where're we going?" he asked.  
"We're just going to circle around Arda," Aica said. "Should take a few days." A few days. Formerly, a few months. Maybe even a year. This was the life.  
*  
There it was, shimmering in the distance. Snow coated the sides of Caradhras, hiding most of the bloody rock beneath, but it was not completely gone. Here and there where jagged rocks jutted out and no snow could collect, the red rock was visible.  
"Bet you've missed me," Khamul muttered. She slowed her horse as she rode up to the mountain. The opposite side this time. There was a thrill, coming to the mountain from the Mirkwood side.   
Lorien side, rather, and Khamul had to watch her step around here. There were bound to be hundreds of elves watching from the golden forest.  
The East Gate of Moria was much less elaborate than the West Gate. Just a hole in the rock, really. Caradhras looked far less imposing as well.   
"Going to stop me from crossing still?" Khamul asked. She wondered if she should ride up on the pass to try and attract its attention.  
"It has been a long time, ringbearer," the unearthly voice of the mountain called.  
"So it has. I seem to recall that you once had a great scheme in mind. A scheme that would destroy the balrog forever. That hasn't happened, has it?"  
"I see many things, ringbearer. Above and below and around."  
"So it's gone?"  
"The balrog dwells still in its quiet halls, meditating upon the silence and solitude it enjoys. For now."  
"What'd you mean, for now?" Khamul shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "I mean, that's what I thought. However, I seem to find myself in need of an army. An army that will only become available if the balrog is dead. Therefore –"  
The mountain laughed. "You could not slay Lungorthin. Not even Glorfindel would stand a chance against him. Ecthelion would fall as well, except perhaps for if he had his helmet."  
"All right, well, then what're you going to do about it?"  
"I am not going to do a thing."  
"And you're fine with having a balrog living there for all eternity?"  
"I would not say that. Climb my pass, ringbearer. There is a cave with an excellent view of Zirak-zigil."  
"That's another mountain, right?"  
"Indeed. Durin's Tower is atop it."  
"So?"  
"So I think you will enjoy the view."  
Khamul sighed and turned her horse toward the pass. Prophetic, cryptic, sentient mountains, she thought. I wish I'd never come here.  
There was fresh snow covering Caradhras like a thick blanket. Khamul's horse set back its ears but continued through the drifts. Some were so high they engulfed the horse and nearly Khamul as well.  
"Were you trying to kill someone recently?" she asked.  
"I told him quite clearly that he would be allowed passage once and once only," Caradhras said. "One does not cross twice and call it once."  
Khamul considered that. "You told me that, and you told Aragorn as well. Is he here?"  
"Perhaps."  
"What's he want to cross you for? What's on the other side?" Lorien and Mirkwood, homes of the elves. But the High Pass near Rivendell was…no, it was overrun by goblins.   
Khamul found the cave easily enough; it was the same one she'd taken shelter in with Firin all those years ago.  
"This had better be good," she warned, leaving the horse inside while she sat down on a large rock outside.  
From her seat near the top of the mountain, Khamul could see for miles and miles in every direction. There was the peak of Zirak-zigil, Durin's Tower poking out, proudly standing a few feet taller than the peak of the mountain itself. And there, the forgotten relation of the family, Fanuidhol, standing guard over the east of the range. Nothing special there.   
To the west was Eregion, with Enedwaith and Dunland just barely visible in the distance. In the east, Lorien, with Mirkwood far beyond it, across the Anduin.  
If she looked hard enough, Khamul fancied she could see the Ash Mountains, right on the edge of the southern horizon. And a little smear of red there, glowing and crackling. The fires of Mount Doom.  
Caradhras was quiet for the rest of the day. Snow didn't even fall. Nothing dared to disturb the mountain. Even Khamul moved as little as possible and tried not to move the snow. It might cause an avalanche, for one thing.  
The sun set over what Khamul fancied might be the sea. Maybe. Perhaps. Probably not. It rose again the next day over the rich green of Mirkwood.  
"This is quite boring," Khamul said, stifling a yawn. "There's nothing going on."  
Caradhras was silent. Perhaps it had forgotten that she was here.  
Looking east, Khamul watched the East Gate of Moria. So plain, so ugly compared to the fabulous West Gate. Apparently the dwarves had wanted to make an impression on the Eregion elves, but hadn't cared about the Lorien ones.  
There was a slight tremble in the mountain and Khamul hurriedly looked around, wondering if an avalanche was coming. When nothing happened, she relaxed.  
And then, she saw something. Frowning, Khamul leaned forward and watched the East Gate. A curl of smoke issued forth, followed by several figures.   
"Is the balrog coming?" Khamul muttered, her heart skipping a beat. That smoke was nothing if not ominous.  
The figures, there were eight, paused and looked back at the gate. One elf, Khamul could see that from here. Two Men, and five…other things. The big, thick one looked like a dwarf, but what about the others?   
"Halflings!" Khamul hissed, leaping to her feet. The Halflings with the Ring! They were there! But where were they going and why wasn't Gandalf leading them?  
Still, it didn't matter. It was all the better that Gandalf wasn't here. Khamul could easily take them this way.  
Khamul started down the mountain, but she hadn't got more than a few yards when she found her way blocked with snowdrifts and rocks.   
They hadn't been there before.  
"What game are you playing?" Khamul snapped.  
"Sit and watch," Caradhras commanded.  
"The Ring is getting away!"  
"You once, I believe, questioned my neutrality. You demanded why I could not act. Why I must always wait and let others do my work."  
"I didn't mean for you to use that against me!"  
"Unfortunate."  
Khamul cursed and kicked at the snowdrift. She hit a rock and cursed louder, hopping away.  
"Return to the rock and keep a watch on Durin's Tower."  
"Can I leave then?"  
"You may do more than leave. You may leave with an army at your back. Under your command, of course."  
"You think the balrog's going to die?" Khamul asked.  
"I once gave the Maia, Sauron, a choice. He could let Lungorthin live, in which case he would gain greatly, but also lose. Or he could kill him then and there, to great benefit as well as loss. He chose to let him live. It is time to reap the consequences of that bargain."  
"Made the wrong one, huh?"  
"It depends."  
"On what?"  
"The will of the Valar, their speed, fate, luck. Many things."  
"What's going to happen?"  
"Something that has never happened before."  
Always exciting, Khamul thought, sitting back. She cast the eight figures another glance. They were starting to move, eager to be away from the caverns of Moria by dark. Aragorn was probably with them, hurrying them away before they got killed by goblins. Smart man.   
Khamul watched for the rest of the day and into the night. The sun rose again the next day, and Khamul kept watching. She was starting to get tired of this business.  
Just as she was thinking of leaving, a flash of light exploded on Durin's Tower. Light flared, and so did fire. Dark scarlet flames and black smoke writhed with brilliant light, the light of the stars.  
"What's happening?" Khamul whispered.  
Caradhras was too entranced to respond. It was watching the battle with great interest. Despite its apparent foreknowledge, it seemed as nervous as Khamul as to the outcome. But who exactly was fighting? The balrog, certainly, but who in Arda could possibly fight a balrog?  
Gandalf!  
"It's Gandalf!" Khamul exclaimed. "What's he doing, fighting a balrog?"  
"He fights so that his friends may live," the mountain replied. "One foolishly awoke the beast, which tracked them down within my halls."  
"He's going to die!"  
"Quite possibly."  
"No! That can't happen!" Without Gandalf, it would just be Sauron and Saruman. There would be no chance for elven or Gondorian victory. The sole choice would be between which Dark Lord would win.  
Khamul stood up, feeling like she wanted to pace. Nervous energy built up in her as she watched the light and smoke battle. Gandalf had to win. He had to.  
There was a flare of light like the death of a star. Smoke exploded, spiraling up into the air.   
"What was that?" Khamul asked, but in a moment she didn't have to. She could feel it. A power had gone out of the world.  
The balrog was dead.  
"He won," Khamul whispered. "Oh Valar, Gandalf won." She never thought she'd be so happy to say those words.  
And then the world trembled again as another power left it.  
Khamul's jaw dropped. She couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound. She had been so sure, so happy. There had been hope. And now it was snuffed out like a candle.  
"Gandalf's dead."


	71. Replacement

"I hate orcs."  
"You've mentioned that."  
"I suppose I have," Aica said. She glanced around the dark forest. "Well? Where is he?"  
"He's probably just late," Ringe soothed.  
"Then he's going to get his head cut off! I don't tolerate lateness!"  
"My apologies," a slimy voice hissed. A hunchbacked orc stumbled out of the forest and into the light of the moon. "Greetings, Shriekers."  
"Well?" Aica snapped. "You said you had information."  
"I always have information for the great servants of the mighty Eye."  
"What is it?"  
The orc glanced from side to side, then leaned close as if what he was going to say was a great secret. "There is a certain group of persons who have left the Mines of Moria and kin of mine, regrettably alive. They also killed the balrog."  
"I heard about that. Morgoth wasn't happy."  
The orc chuckled nervously. He didn't believe the first Dark Lord was back, but he'd give no indication of that to the Shriekers. "These persons carry an item of great power. The One Ring."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Positive. I have very good sources."  
"So do I, and they haven't said anything about that."  
"Perhaps the Shrieker should choose her sources with more care," the orc suggested.  
Aica snarled and started to draw her sword, but Ringe laid a hand on her wrist. "Where are they now?" he asked.  
"They have recently left the shelter of the Goldenwood, riding down the river in boats. They stay to the western shore, wisely, but we will soon catch them."  
"Make it sooner," Aica snarled. "Whatever happens, don't give these people up. I want each and every head, and everything they've got on 'em. That means no looting!"  
"I will pass along those instructions to my subordinates."  
"Good." The orc turned to go and started to limp back into the forest. "Hey!" Aica called after him. "What's your name anyway? I like to know the names of the people working for me."  
"Grishnakh, Shrieker," the orc said. "And I am the orc who will deliver the Ring to you."  
"You better."  
Grishnakh disappeared into the forest.  
"Do you think he'll find it?" Ringe asked.  
"No," Aica said.  
"Do you think he's even got the right people?"  
"Maybe. I don't know." Aica grinned. "Good thing the wizard's dead, huh? No more Maia on their side, unless you count that bird-charmer, what's-his-name."  
"Radagast?"  
"That's the one. Don't have to worry about him though. Probably run into the east soon enough." Aica called to the Fell Beast and jumped on its back when it arrived.  
"Where are we going now?" Ringe asked.  
"I don't know. Looking around. Actually, I think we need to make a stop by Isengard. Saruman's been growing a bit too big for his britches. He's up to something."  
"Besides conquering Rohan?"  
"Yeah," Aica snarled. "Makes me suspicious, that. How'd he get an army big enough for it? Sure, there're plenty of Dunlendings, and Rohan isn't as strong as it used to be, but it's a big place, and he's talking about wiping them off the map. You'd need a big army for that."  
"Maybe he recruited some orcs from the Misty Mountains."  
Aica snorted. "Don't be a fool. Those orcs are firmly under the heel of the balrog. At least, they were until the balrog died. This plan's been underway for months. No, can't be them. Besides, last I heard, the mountains're emptying. The orcs are leaving their dens for…somewhere else."  
"Why're they leaving?"  
"Who knows and who cares? Maybe they'll take care of Mirkwood and Lorien for us."  
Ringe watched the east as they rose into the sky. It was probably his imagination, but he thought he could see little dots streaming out of the Misty Mountains, all heading for Mirkwood.  
*  
Without the balrog to lead and intimidate them, the orcs were lost. Khamul had found many just sitting in their tunnels or wandering aimlessly. It had been simplicity itself to round them up and lead them out.  
Khamul felt more like she was herding sheep than gathering an army for a devastating attack on Lothlorien.  
"Come on, you maggots," she snapped as she led the orcs out of the mountains. More were joining even as they descended into the valley. She intended to go to Mirkwood first and pick up a few more, but considering the slim pickings there, she might as well just take a stab at Lorien.  
"Where are we going?" one orc asked.  
"Right now, Dol Guldur." Unless I change my mind. "Then we're going to attack Lorien."  
"Death to the elves!"  
"Right."  
The train of orcs, and the occasional goblin mixed in, stretched for quite the distance. Such a shame it wasn't as wide as it was long. Khamul would've felt a lot more confident then. As it was, they far outnumbered the elves, but every elf was worth at least ten orcs. Did they outnumber them that much? Khamul wasn't entirely sure.  
Khamul and the first section of the army arrived at Dol Guldur almost a week after they'd left the mountains. The gates opened for the Nazgul, but after that, Khamul didn't see so much as a sign of the two orcs who lived in the abandoned fortress. The rest of the army trickled in over the next few days. There were so many that they all didn't fit into Dol Guldur, many having to camp outside in the dangerous forest. A few were lost to the spiders and wargs, but most survived.  
"I don't like this," Khamul muttered, staring out the highest window at the army crammed inside and outside the walls. Sure, there were a lot of them, but against Lorien? There was a ring of power there, wielded by one of the oldest elves in existence. The chances against something like that were slim at best.  
A shadow fell across the army and Khamul looked up to see a Fell Beast coming in for a landing.  
"Not on my army!" Khamul bellowed and sprinted out of the room, hoping to mitigate the damage.  
As it turned out, only a dozen orcs were killed by the landing and the Fell Beast's hunger. Still, that was a dozen too many for Khamul.  
"What're you doing here?" she roared, not caring who it was.   
"Hello!" Ancalime said, waving and smiling as she slid off the creature.  
"What are you doing?" Khamul hissed between clenched teeth.  
"I just wanted to say hello."  
"You've said hello. Now get out of my sight."  
"What're you doing?"  
"Planning an attack on Lorien."  
"Oh, that sounds exciting. How are you going to do it?"  
"Throw everything I've got against them and see what happens."  
"Will it work?"  
"No. Galadriel's too strong. If Sauron was here with his Ring, then sure, I could do it. But not like this."  
"It's very boring everywhere else," Ancalime said. "No one wants me around and all these exciting things are happening."  
"I thought you said it was boring."  
"Oh, it is. For me anyway. Everyone else is very busy. Yanta and Metima were up in Dale the other day, getting the Easterlings together for an attack against the dwarves. And Aica's been talking with orcs about some travelers, and Melkor's been hanging around Minas Morgul…" Ancalime sighed. "Everything's happening everywhere but where I am."  
"Why don't you stay here for a while?" Khamul suggested. "Who knows? There's a lot of stuff to be done in Dol Guldur, so maybe you could run the army for a while."  
"What? Really?" Ancalime beamed. "You really think I could do it?"  
"Sure. With a little practice, I'm sure you'll do great."  
"But I've never fought before."  
Khamul clapped Ancalime on the shoulder. "First time for everything. Now, how about we go inside and warm up? You can tell me all about those magnificent creatures, the Fell Beasts. Particularly about how you ride one."  
"Oh, that sounds so nice," Ancalime said. She smiled. "You know, I always knew you had a good heart, Khamul."  
Not so nice as you might think, Khamul thought with a smile as she led Ancalime into the fortress. Sauron thinks he can shut me out of the great battle for Middle-Earth by keeping me here, eh? Well, with a little training, I think Ancalime'll be ready to take on Lorien while I…well, while I get involved in whatever Sauron and Morgoth don't want me to.


	72. Crash-Landing

It was a beautiful day for flying, even with the clouds and the rain. Aica kept a careful eye on the river below while Ringe watched the shore. Theoretically, at least. He kept getting distracted.  
"That's a really big waterfall."  
"Shut up and watch for movement."  
"I can't see anything from so high up."  
"I don't care. You'll spot something if there's something that's stupid enough to show its face. And if it does, I want you seeing it."  
Ringe sighed and watched the shore. He didn't see anything. Sometimes he did see things, but they were on the east bank of the river, and Aica got mad when he pointed them out. She told him to watch both banks, but she only cared about the western shore.   
He hadn't seen so much as a bird from the western shore. Either there was nothing there or else someone was taking a lot of care to make it seem that way.  
"There's something!" Aica hissed, peering down at the water far below. She jerked the reins and the Fell Beast hissed and started circling.  
"What is it?"  
"I don't know. It's small and pale… I think it's holding onto a log."  
"A log?" Ringe strained for a look but Aica held him back.  
"You're going to fall in," she snapped.  
"What is it?"  
"I don't know! When it's dark we'll go down for a look."  
There was a speeding blur, then a shriek from the Fell Beast. Aica screamed and clutched onto the reins as they began falling backwards, the wings flapping in vain, the claws grasping at nothing, the beak snapping at an untouchable enemy.  
"What happened?!" Aica screamed.  
"I don't know!"  
"There was that thing… It was an arrow! Someone shot us!"  
And then they went down.  
The Fell Beast was long dead before it hit the ground. Clinging tightly to its back, Aica gasped as branches impaled the corpse, some jabbing up only inches away from her body.  
The creature came to a rest on the floor of a forest. There was nothing but destruction for several hundred feet in all directions. Broken branches, shattered trees. Several trees swayed precariously and threatened to fall.  
"What miserable wretch shot us down?" Aica hissed, lying on the Fell Beast's back, staring up at a clouded sky full of trembling trees.  
"I don't know," Ringe whispered. He was shaking uncontrollably and probably wouldn't be able to move for hours.   
"It must've been an elf. Only an elf could make a shot like that."  
"Uh huh."  
"I'm going to find that elf, Ringe. I'm going to find him and tear him to pieces."  
"Uh huh."  
"Are you listening to me?"  
"Uh huh."  
Aica sat up, ignoring the waves of dizziness and nausea that assailed her. "Get up," she snarled, kicking at Ringe.  
"I don't think I can."  
"You better, or else I'll come over there and hit you." Aica dragged herself to her feet and took a shaky step toward her brother.  
Ringe jumped to his feet, but then clutched desperately at Aica for support as his legs threatened to give out.  
"Sorry, sorry," he apologized frantically as Aica glared. When he was feeling more stable, he looked around. "What're we going to do now?"  
"I'm going to find that elf."  
"How?"  
"I don't know, but I'm going to find him. Just you watch me." Aica looked over at the remains of the Fell Beast. She kicked a leathery wing and then lifted it up, peering underneath it.  
"What're you looking for?"  
"Shut your mouth and help me find the palantir."  
"Oh. Will that find the elf?"  
"Sure will. Real fast, too."  
They found the palantir sometime later. It had been thrown from the wreckage and was embedded in the trunk of a tree. It took some work to remove it from the wood, but after Aica realized that nothing she could do could possibly break it, they got it out quickly.  
"Right. So, an elf in the Emyn Muil. Where?" Aica peered into the crystal. She looked through the forest and hills piece by piece. An orc here, a goblin there, but nothing substantial.  
"Anything?" Ringe asked.  
"Shut up. I'm still looking. Wait…" The shrubs were smashed in this part, the grass was trampled. A very large force had just passed this way.  
"What is it?"  
"Will you be quiet? I'm busy!" A very large force indeed. Aica followed the trail as it became fresher and fresher until she saw… "That bastard!"  
"What?"  
"Saruman!"  
"What about him?"  
Aica snarled, too furious to even speak properly. "He's done something to orcs."  
"What?"  
"I don't know! Cross-bred them with Men, it looks like. They're big and they're out in the day."  
"How do you know they're Saruman's?"  
"Because they've got his hand on them!"  
"Really?"  
"No, you moron! Well…I don't know. Saruman's sign is a white hand, and they've got that stamped on them. They're his, all right, and I know exactly what they're doing."  
"What is it?"  
"He's got them hunting the Ring!" Aica jumped to her feet. "We can't let them get it! Right! Where are they?"  
"I don't know."  
Aica looked around. "Where're we?" she muttered.  
"I think north is that way," Ringe said, pointing in a direction.  
"Yeah, and that's where the arrow came from. Northwest… We'll go that way." Tucking the palantir under her arm, Aica started off with Ringe following a respectful distance behind.


	73. Uruk-hai

Vorea breathed in the air. The air of her homeland. No, it wasn't that anymore. Too many years had passed. Too much time had gone by. Enedwaith was nothing to anyone anymore. They had fought the Numenoreans valiantly, but in the end their cause had been forgotten, washed away by the waves of time.  
And here she rode, having taken a horse from a farm they'd raided. Vorea did not feel comfortable on the Fell Beasts, and yet they carried her well. This horse was skittish and fearful, often bucking and refusing to move. The orcs laughed about it, but well away from Vorea's ears. Too many had tasted her metal spear.  
Hearing of a force of Rohirrim moving toward the Fords of Isen, Vorea had gathered the orcs and Dunlendings in the area and set off to fight them. The smaller orc force would be crushed, but hopefully they could deal a blow to Rohan. It was rumored the king's son himself was in the force.  
Dunlendings rode on obedient horses and orcs rode upon vicious, slavering wargs. Vorea's horse was scared to death of all of them.  
"Captain!" the Dunlending leader barked. "There is a group of large orcs approaching from the north. They march without fear under the sun and are covering the distance separating us at great speed."  
Vorea frowned and hefted her spear. "Continue to take the men toward the Fords," she said. "I shall deal with these orcs."  
The leader nodded and Vorea broke off from the pack, commanding the horse with the sheer force of her will. Far, far above in the sky a black shape circled. Vorea's Fell Beast was never far away, though she had ordered it not to come down save at night. These things should remain a secret as long as was possible.  
Flying across the ground, Vorea cut an imposing figure. Her armor gleamed, her helm shone, and her spear glittered like death itself. And yet, the orcs approaching her were almost more fearsome still. They were huge, all dressed in the same dull black armor and carrying pikes and swords. Standard issue. Someone was building an army, and it wasn't Sauron.  
Vorea's horse was only too glad to stop as she tugged on the reins. The orcs came to a stop an uncomfortably close distance away at the barked command of one of their number, a particularly large creature with a fancier helmet than the others.  
"You are uncommonly large orcs," Vorea said. "Who is your master?" Then she saw the white hand on their foreheads and breastplates.   
"The White Wizard commands us," the leader growled. "Who are you to get in our way?"  
"I am Vorea, third only to the Witch-King and Khamul in power. I serve Lord Sauron."  
The creatures laughed. "We do not serve the Eye," one sneered. "He is weak compared to our master. And when the White Wizard regains what your master has lost, he will be mightier still."  
"Saruman," Vorea growled. This was troubling news, but it had to wait. "Why are you out?" she asked. "If your master was wise he would save you until a time came when he could crush Rohan."  
"We are beginning that war. We march to the Fords of Isen to destroy the Rohirrim there."  
"As do I and my force. Shall we join?"  
The creatures muttered amongst each other for several minutes. "The victory belongs to Isengard and no other," the leader snarled.  
"If there is a victory, I shall agree to that," Vorea said.  
"There will be. We are the fighting Uruk-hai. We have never been defeated and never shall."  
I think you have never been defeated because you have never been tested, Vorea thought. "Very well," she said. "Follow me back to my force. We shall attack the Fords as one."  
"Not quite as one," the Uruk-hai leader sneered. "There is another, larger, group of us attacking the Rohirrim. We are the eastern force, much smaller than our brethren."  
If this was the smaller force, and this whole expedition was nothing more than a prelude to the true attack, Vorea was worried.   
"How many Uruk-hai exist?" she asked as they returned to the wargs and Dunlendings.  
"Many thousands," the leader replied confidently. "And the White Wizard is still making more. He will not attack Rohan until he has a force of at least ten thousand."  
Ten thousand. Ten thousand. Ten thousand Uruk-hai. Vorea could take Minas Tirith with that amount. To throw it all against such weaklings as Rohan! Saruman was as paranoid as Morgoth when it came to them.  
"Why does your master fear Rohan so much that he must rally an army of such size to fight them?" she asked.  
"He doesn't fear them!" the leader snarled. "He wants to wipe them off the face of the world. Leave no farm standing, no Rohirrim alive. Every last man of them shall be killed. Did I say man? I meant Man. All of them will die."  
He fears them, Vorea thought. There is something special in Rohan that Saruman fears. Is it the same thing as Morgoth fears?   
The Dunlendings were none too pleased to be joined by the Uruk-hai, and neither were the wargs, but after seeing the size of the force, they contented themselves with seething in silence.  
"I hear the sounds of battle!" the Uruk-hai leader cackled some time later.   
Vorea could smell the blood on the air. There were ravens circling above the carnage, and high above, the Fell Beast. "Charge!" she yelled, swinging her sword.  
The Uruk-hai dutifully raised their weapons and ran down into battle. The wargs and Dunlendings needed no such prodding, having already started toward the enemy the moment they were in sight.  
As for Vorea, her horse froze. It would not move, its eyes huge and fixed on the dead horses. Could it recognize its kin and know that it might be next?  
With a sigh, Vorea dismounted and ran toward the enemy. It was complete chaos, and looked like victory for the combined forces of Mordor and Isengard.   
Vorea slew two Rohirrim and found there was very little else for her to do but watch. Something didn't seem right to her, and she was working on what exactly it was when she heard the whoops and cries of warg riders.  
Glancing toward the creatures, Vorea saw that a particularly large specimen of their race had slain a Rider and was doing a little dance around his body. He must have been some great warrior, she thought. Oh! Perhaps the King's heir…Theodred. Perhaps he.  
The large orc was killed by an irate Rider and then Vorea began to get the feeling that there was something very wrong indeed. The ground was…trembling. Something was coming.  
When the first horse crested the hill, Vorea knew it was time to leave. Most of the Uruk-hai took the hint as well, sprinting for the safety of Isengard far, far away.  
Vorea made it to a copse of trees where she watched the Riders trample the orcs, slaughter the remaining Uruk-hai, and spear the wargs. The Dunlendings fought briefly, valiantly, but were cut to pieces.  
A valiant effort, Vorea thought. But ill-fated. At least the King's son is dead, if that was indeed him.   
As soon as night fell, Vorea called down her Fell Beast. Sauron needed to hear of these Uruk-hai, if he did not already know of them. Saruman's treachery ran deeper than anyone had suspected.


	74. Leave-Taking

"Put that rabbit on the fire," Grishnakh ordered, settling down for a nice nap before dinner was done. He was safe on the other side of the Anduin while those white-painted monstrosities slaughtered everyone on the western shore. He'd creep back over sometime and see if they'd left anything, but he was in no mood to follow those things. They were huge!   
"What were those things?" an orc asked.  
"Don't know, don't care. Stay well away from those, me lad. They'll tear you to pieces, they will."  
"Big damn orcs, weren't they?" another orc commented. "Hope they all go off and kill each other somewhere far away, leave all the pickings to us, eh?"  
"Won't do that," Grishnakh said. "Far too disciplined for that. You saw them. No looting, nothing. More like Men than orcs."  
"Probably 'cause they are."  
Every orc jumped to his feet and drew his weapons.   
"Who're you?" Grishnakh hissed, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew the answer. "Shrieker." He put away his sword.  
Aica and Ringe stepped into the orcs' camp. Both were muddy and covered in pine needles and twigs. Still, they were Shriekers, and thus extremely dangerous.  
"What are you doing here?" Aica asked.  
"Waiting for my rabbit to cook."  
Aica glanced at the sizzling meat on the spit. She walked over to it and kicked it into the ground before grinding it into the mud. "Guess it's done," she said.  
"What'd you want?" Grishnakh snarled.  
"Don't tell me you didn't hear all that fighting on the other shore?"  
"Those were big damn orcs!"  
"They were Saruman's big damn orcs!" Aica roared. "And they are taking the Ring to Isengard! Now unless you want to serve the big damn orcs for the rest of your miserable lives, you are going to follow them and get the Ring back!"  
The orcs did not look thrilled by this. There were a few mutterings and Grishnakh looked like he was going to protest.  
"Now!" Aica bellowed, drawing her sword. Despite the mud and plant matter, Aica was still a Nazgul, and a very scary Nazgul when she wanted to be.  
The orcs took off for the river at a run, uncovering hidden boats and hurling them into the river as they nearly trampled each other in their haste to get away from the Shriekers.  
"Well, that took care of that," Aica said. "They'll find 'em, mark my words. Some of those orcs came out of Moria; they're good trackers."  
"Saruman's orcs are stronger than ours though," Ringe said. "If it comes to a fight, we'll lose."  
"It won't though. Grishnakh's smart. He'll arrange something so he can sneak off with the Ring with those orcs none the wiser."  
Ringe nodded nervously. "Should we go after them?" he asked.  
"Of course not," Aica snorted. "Now…I need another Fell Beast."  
"How are you going to get that?"  
"That's the question, isn't it? I can't contact Sauron with this thing, 'cause then he'll know I have a palantir. Doubt he'd be happy to find that out. The only other people with 'em are the Steward of the Gondor and Saruman. Neither of which I want to talk to."  
"Then what're we going to do?"  
"Guess I'll have to try something else then," Aica said, sitting down and placing both hands on the stone.  
*  
"So when we get to the borders of Lorien, I point at the forest and say 'charge'?"  
"Yes," Khamul said, nodding.  
"And what happens then?" Ancalime asked.  
"Well, then the orcs will attack the forest."  
"What do I do then?"  
"You wait until they either come running back, in which case you run along with them, or until one of the commanders returns and tells you they won."  
"Oh. Is that all?"  
"Yes."   
Over the past few days, Khamul had been giving Ancalime a very brief introduction into military tactics while instructing the most competent among the orcs in tactics to use against the elves. Hopefully it would all go well. At least, maybe Dol Guldur wouldn't get razed to the ground.  
"Why don't you study that idea for a while," Khamul said. "I'm going to take a walk."   
Ancalime nodded and her lips moved as she ran through the plan again and again.  
Valar, what an idiot, Khamul thought. Spying her orc commanders up ahead, she grinned. She'd never thought she'd see the day where an orc was smart, but compared to Ancalime, even a worm could be a genius.  
"You ready?" she asked.  
"Indeed, Captain," a huge orc said, saluting. "The army's in fine shape, but if we stay in Dol Guldur any longer, I fear we'll lose more to the spiders."  
"Speaking of which," a smaller, wiry orc said, leaning forward, "I've heard tell they're massing in the north for an attack against the Elven King's halls."  
"We should lend them some help then," Khamul said. "It wouldn't do for us to take Lorien only to come back to a forest united under Thranduil. Since you mentioned it, take your force and go north. Kill all elves in your path, but your main objective is to keep them away from Dol Guldur."  
"Yes, Captain!" The orc saluted and hurried off to inform his troops.   
"Leave immediately!" Khamul called after him.  
"Are you leaving us as well, Captain?" the big orc asked.  
Khamul thought about this. "Yes," she said. "I am."  
"The other Shrieker is a fool."  
"I know, but you know your stuff. Should at least keep you alive."  
"You think we will die, don't you?"  
Khamul smiled. "It was nice knowing you all," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be taking my leave." She walked back to Ancalime's room and knocked on the door.  
"Oh, hello, Khamul. Did you have a nice walk?" the ninth ringbearer asked.  
"It was fine. I'm afraid I just got urgent orders from Sauron. Looks like you'll be leading this all by yourself."  
"Oh…wow. I don't know if I can do that."  
"Of course you can. I'll see if I can make it back for the fight, but listen to the orcs. Things shouldn't go too badly wrong then."  
"Oh… I'll try!"  
"Good." Khamul hurried out of the fortress. "Where are you, you great lizard?" she muttered, looking for the Fell Beast.  
With a hiss, the creature's huge neck came snaking down, staring at Khamul out of two massive snake-like eyes.  
"Glad to see you're around," Khamul snarled. "Now get down here. We're leaving."  
The Fell Beast hopped into the courtyard, shaking the fortress to its foundations. Khamul hurriedly swung into the saddle, hoping that she didn't fall off. Just before she took off, she whistled.  
A horse neighed and there was a crash as the stable door broke before the beast's hooves.  
Khamul wasn't going to be stuck on the this oversized hairless bat forever, and she had no intention of having to steal a horse from some farm. Her horse would follow and find her, as it always did.  
Her first flight on the Fell Beast was terrifying, though Khamul would never admit it. Her teeth were gritted tightly and her entire body was as tense as a bowstring. She was too high, going too fast. It was too cold and she was starting to feel sick.   
"This is crazy," she muttered. Worst of all, she had a weird feeling in the back of her head. Kind of fuzzy, like how she felt when Aica was spying on her.  
Aica.  
Khamul snarled and yanked on the reins. The Beast obediently turned in the desired direction, making Khamul even sicker at the sudden, sharp turn.  
Where was she? Khamul was tired of these stupid stunts, tired of being spied on. Where was Aica? Khamul was tired of the ringbearers in general, but Aica in particular.  
The feeling increased as Khamul flew south, toward the Emyn Muil. She was beginning to get the feeling that Aica was drawing her toward her, but right then Khamul didn't care. She was going to teach the seventh ringbearer a thing or two.  
The Fell Beast knew where it was going even if Khamul didn't. But even Khamul could see the site of destruction. With a diameter of over two hundred feet, the area where a Fell Beast had crash-landed was utterly demolished.   
Not there! Aica's voice snapped in Khamul's head.  
"What're you doing?" Khamul snapped back, clapping a hand to her head. "Get out of my mind!"  
I will! I just need you to pick us up.  
"What'd you mean?"  
An elf shot us down. We're near the Falls of Rauros."  
Cursing, Khamul turned the Fell Beast around and headed back for the falls. Dammit. What an idiot Aica was. Getting shot down, what an idiot. But by an elf? There weren't elves around here.   
Or were there? Suppose an elf had decided to accompany the Ring on its journey to Valar-knew-where. There were enough elves in Rivendell. It might even be Glorfindel.  
No, it wouldn't be him. He was too powerful. Khamul would've been able to sense him. It was a weaker elf, at least, supposedly.  
If there was one thing Feanor was, it was egotistic. He would love to think of himself as participating in one of the great events of the age. Although he probably had an ulterior motive as well.  
Khamul cursed under her breath. Not only was Aragorn on this absurd journey, but so was Feanor. Whatever plan the Wise had made, it was big.   
Where could they possibly be taking the Ring? Khamul wondered. Probably Minas Tirith. Not that it mattered. There was no hope for Men and elves now. It was just a battle between two Dark Lords. Khamul didn't really care who won anymore. It would just be the same fate, though sadly ironic if Saruman won. An Istari ruling as a Dark Lord.  
Near the Falls, Khamul spotted Ringe jumping up and down, waving his arms. She briefly entertained the idea of swooping down, picking him up in the Fell Beast's claws, and throwing him over the Falls. Probably wouldn't be a good idea though. Besides, what was the point?  
"Here's your damn mount," Khamul snapped, sliding off the Fell Beast. She wasn't riding one again. And certainly not with Aica and Ringe on it.   
"About time," Aica sniffed.  
"Shut up. What were you doing anyway that got you shot down?"  
"Absolutely nothing! It just came out of nowhere! Bastard."  
"How do you know it was an elf?"  
"No Man could make a shot like that."  
Khamul nodded. Feanor then. Definitely.   
"Shame you're going to be stuck here now," Aica said with a sneer as she and Ringe jumped onto the Beast.   
Khamul smiled and watched as the pair left. Good riddance, she thought. Would be even better if Feanor shot them again and they all went over the Falls.   
Her horse found her several hours later. It was tired and ate almost all the grass on the plateau, but it was still there. Immortal horses. Greatest invention ever.  
"Time to leave," Khamul said, swinging into the saddle. "Don't rightly know where we're going, but it's away from here."  
Once they were out of the hilly Emyn Muil, the land flew by. Rohan was a flat, firm land with little in the way of marshes and jagged rocks. In other words, Khamul could ride absurdly fast with little risk.  
I think it's time for another little chat with Saruman, she thought. This one's not going to end well though. For him, with any luck.


	75. Dawn

Was it possible to kill an Istari with anything less than another Maia? Could Khamul even hurt Saruman?   
Doesn't matter, she thought. I hate that scumbag even more than Sauron. Maybe even a little more than Morgoth, though that's close. I'll serve Sauron, with gritted teeth and clenched fists, but I won't serve a traitor Istari.  
And what happened if Morgoth got his hands on the Ring before either of the other two? Well then, Khamul might just have to take a permanent vacation in the east. The very, very far east. Might have to do that anyway, but definitely if Morgoth came to power.  
Three choices, and none of them in Khamul's best interests. Not that Gandalf had been either, but at least he hadn't had world domination on the mind. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Khamul wouldn't mind living in a world where Sauron ruled. Just not supremely. It was the supremacy of the Ring that bothered her. An empire that encompassed all Middle-Earth, fine. An empire that encompassed all Middle-Earth and where Sauron could watch and control everyone, not fine.  
Might even rather have Gandalf win, Khamul admitted grudgingly. Of course, what would that entail? The Ring being lost forever? Fine, but Sauron would still smolder away in Mordor. The Ring destroyed? Then Khamul would die. But with Morion dead and her Age passed, was there anything really left living for?  
Everyone Khamul had ever known was dead, as were their descendants. Morion and the other ringbearers were her last anchor to the past. Now Morion was dead, and the others had turned against her. What was there left?  
"Absolutely nothing," Khamul muttered, which was precisely why she was doing something as stupid as challenging Saruman himself to a fight.  
Her horse was galloping along the edge of a forest. Khamul's eyes were fixed straight ahead, to the end of the Misty Mountains. Somewhere in there was Isengard.  
A flash of white caught her eye and Khamul jerked the reins. The horse reared but Khamul held on, searching the forest for the source of the white.  
Saruman was the White Wizard. Rohan was his land now. Might he be watching her?  
"All right," Khamul snarled, drawing her sword. "I know you're in there. Show yourself, you bastard! I'm not afraid of you! In fact, you ought to be afraid of me!"  
"I'm afraid that's never going to happen, Khamul."  
Khamul hissed. Saruman's voice was slightly different…somehow. She couldn't place it, but it wasn't the same. "Show yourself!" she demanded.  
An old man stepped out of the forest. He was dressed all in white, but he wasn't Saruman. For one thing, his staff was different. For another, his face was…was…it looked just like…  
"Gandalf?" Khamul gasped.  
The White Wizard smiled. "I knew I would be recognized, but I never thought it would be by you. What brings you here?"  
"What…what… You're dead!"  
"The news travels fast."  
"I saw you die myself! Caradhras made me watch Durin's Tower! You killed the balrog! And you died!"  
"Indeed I did."  
"Then what are you doing here?"  
"You of all people should know, Khamul. The Valar sent me back. My business in this world is not finished."  
"So they just sent you back?"  
Gandalf nodded. "I am Gandalf the White now," he said. "So, in a way, I did die. Gandalf the Grey is no more."  
Khamul shook her head. "I can't believe it," she muttered. For some strange, inexplicable reason, she was glad. "At least it isn't just between Sauron and Saruman now," she said. And Morgoth. Mustn't forget Morgoth.  
"Indeed not," Gandalf said. "There is power left in the West." His eye twinkled. "I take it that you may be thinking of switching sides?"  
Khamul snorted. "Of course not. I hate Saruman more than Sauron though. And Sauron won't be too pleased with all that's been going on here."  
"Indeed? What has been happening?"  
Khamul shrugged. "Saw some orcs with Saruman's hand on them. Big damn orcs."  
Gandalf frowned. "He has perfected his Uruk-hai. This is very serious. Very serious indeed. His blow against Rohan will come soon."  
"What now?"  
"Saruman means to destroy Rohan and all its inhabitants. I have recently conversed with the Lady Galadriel, who has been watching this land, albeit from a distance. Saruman is making preparations for a war of immense proportions upon Rohan."  
Khamul's heart started pounding. There was something in Rohan that Morgoth feared above all else. If Rohan was destroyed, nothing would be able to touch him. A world ruled by Sauron was undesirable, a world ruled by Saruman would be despicable, but even Khamul could see that a world ruled by Morgoth was the worst of all. The fallen Vala might just tire of it and annihilate everything.  
Khamul needed an ace up her sleeve. Just in case.   
"You seem worried," Gandalf commented. "Do you, perhaps, fear for Rohan and her people?"  
"If Saruman were to be defeated..." Khamul began.  
"An unlikely scenario. The raiding parties seen in Rohan are quite large, and by no means even a fraction of Saruman's strength."  
"If he were though, what would Rohan do?"  
Gandalf watched her warily. "If Gondor needed aid, Rohan would come, as dictated by the Oath of Eorl."  
Eorl strikes again. Was that what Morgoth was trying to prevent long ago? A union between Gondor and Rohan? For this very purpose, perhaps? For this war? But what did the Vala have to fear? The only thing that had ever touched him was the elf king's sword. There were no more elf kings. Wait…  
"Are there any magic swords in Rohan?" Khamul asked. She remembered Morgoth getting wounded on Weathertop. A slight, insignificant wound, but a wound nonetheless.   
"I believe not," Gandalf said. "Why do you ask?"  
"I don't know… I'll stick around, you can be sure of that. But I'm not joining your army." Khamul nudged her horse and started off again, but not in the direction of Isengard. Hope was back in the world, much as Khamul was loath to admit it.


	76. Travelers in the Marshes

"So nice to be back in the air," Aica chortled as they soared high above the clouds. "What do you think, Ringe?"  
Ringe started, unused to be asked his opinion. "It's nice," he said. He looked back at the Emyn Muil. "What do you think Khamul's going to do?"  
"I don't know and I don't care. She probably won't be able to find her way out of there for a good long time. The war might even be over by then. Things are moving very fast, you know."  
Aica hadn't been in this good of a mood for a long time. It must've been stealing Khamul's Fell Beast. Come to think of it, wasn't Khamul the only Nazgul who had refused a Fell Beast?   
The more Ringe thought about it, the more sure he was. Khamul was the only one who still had her immortal horse, and she'd refused a Fell Beast for precisely that reason. But she had been riding one…  
"Do you think Khamul stole someone's Fell Beast?" he asked.  
"What? No. Why would she?"  
"…I don't know."  
Aica scowled. "Just shut up, Ringe. If this keeps up, I'm going to be the lieutenant of Mordor. Not her. She'll just fade into obscurity."  
"Oh… Is that a good thing?"  
"Do you know what obscurity means?"  
"Oh yes," Ringe said.  
Aica's scowl deepened. "Look down there!" she snapped.  
"At what?"  
"There's smoke there! What's smoke doing there?"  
"I don't know."  
Aica surveyed the land and then took the Fell Beast down for a closer look. "Valar!" she snarled. "Look at that!"  
"That's a big orc," Ringe said, looking at the stake with the head on it.  
"That's Grishnakh!" Aica pointed at a half-burned orc. "The Riders must've caught them all. Dammit! But did they get the Ring?" She jumped off the Beast and started poking through the smoldering corpses.  
"I don't smell anything," Ringe said.  
"You never could. Just keep the damn beast occupied and make sure it doesn't eat anything."  
Aica searched for over an hour but found nothing. "Dammit. They must've escaped."  
"To where?"  
"Either the Riders took them with them or they ran." Aica looked around, searching for a good spot to run to. "The forest, I guess," she muttered. "Doesn't look very nice though."  
"Oh, that forest's haunted," Ringe said.  
"What'd you mean?"  
"People say it's got monsters in it."  
"Ringe! We're monsters! There is nothing in this world as terrifying as us!" Aica snapped. She jumped back on the Fell Beast. "I wish these things could breathe fire," she grumbled. "I'd have that forest in ashes and then sift through whatever was left for the Ring."  
"What would you do if you had the Ring?" Ringe asked.  
"Give it over to Sauron, obviously."  
"Really?"  
"No, you moron! With that kind of power at stake there is no way I would give it away!" Aica grinned. "We don't need another Dark Lord. What we need is a Dark Queen. I like that. It's got a nice ring to it." The smile disappeared. "Just need to find the damn Ring."  
"I know what I'd do with it," Ringe said quietly under his breath. "I'd destroy it. Who wants another tyrant? Who wants to see the world destroyed?"  
*  
The huge beast covered land like no creature save perhaps a dragon. And there were no more dragons in the world, unless Vorea was mistaken. Alas for that, alas for Smaug's death. Lord Sauron could have used the dragon against the dwarves and the people of the north. There would not be a struggle going on there now. The dragon would have decided everything.  
The north is unimportant, Vorea told herself. It is in the south that the matter shall be decided once and for all.  
She passed low over the Dead Marshes, looking down at the diseased land. There was the occasional bubble from brackish water, but nothing lived there. Flames flickered and danced, trying to lure nonexistent travelers into a watery grave.  
Vorea frowned and urged the Fell Beast lower still. Were her eyes deceiving her, or were there creatures walking the Marshes? Travelers? No, there were never travelers here. What fools then were braving the lights, the corpses, and the swamp itself?  
The Fell Beast swooped down suddenly, like a hawk descending upon a mouse. There was no time to hide, no time to run. Whoever they were, Vorea would see them.  
But there was nothing.  
Frowning, Vorea stared down at the Dead Marshes. There had been people there. She was sure of it. But they were gone now, vanished somehow. The Marshes were strange; perhaps they were playing tricks with her eyes.  
Very well, Vorea would settle with that for now, but she would return, and woe to anything that moved if she saw it then. She would take this marsh apart until she held the culprits in her hands.


	77. Round-up

Rohan seemed empty. Nothing but empty grasslands and empty fields and empty…well, emptiness. Khamul was beginning to feel lonely.  
"Isn't there a single person alive here?" she asked, her voice sounding strange in the silence.   
Khamul had taken a long, hard look at her priorities after the encounter with Gandalf. She wasn't ready to make any major decision regarding Sauron, but she knew he loathed Saruman almost as much as he needed him to crush Rohan. Shouldn't be too mad then, when Saruman's invincible army got destroyed.  
After all, just how many orcs could Saruman rally? There wasn't an inexhaustible supply of them. You couldn't just make more. Hang on… Could you? Could you make more orcs?  
"You can't do that," Khamul muttered. Morgoth could do that, sure, but that was it. And that was in the beginning of days. You could get away with a lot then.  
But maybe you could though. Khamul had seen some of Saruman's industries. He was a busy little bee if nothing else. And if anyone could figure out a way to make more orcs, it would be Saruman.  
"This isn't good." Khamul spurred her horse in the direction of Isengard, but was forced to stop not even an hour later when the ground began to shake.  
It wasn't just shaking. It was trembling. The ground reverberated like an organ under the tread of thousands of feet.   
Cautiously approaching a hill, Khamul peered down at what looked like the biggest, and longest, snake the world had ever seen. It wounds its way through the land, stretching on and on and on.   
Except it wasn't a snake. It was an army. An army made of the monster-orcs.   
It was Saruman's army.  
Khamul's jaw dropped. There were more than ten thousand orcs here. And that wasn't counting the Dunlendings she could see bringing up the rear, far, far in the distance.   
Ten thousand against what? Maybe two thousand? Maybe? And that was stretching it. Rohan would be hard-pressed to rally many men at this late hour. Saruman had perfect timing.  
"This is…this is," Khamul stammered. She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe it. Her mind was in a whirl. First Gandalf and now this.   
Well, hope was gone as soon as it'd come. Nothing could even begin to stand against this.   
With a heavy heart, Khamul started for Minas Tirith. The south was far more cut-and-dried than the north. Too much ambiguity. Too many conflicting emotions. If she was lucky, Aragorn wouldn't make it out of wherever he was now (she had the unpleasant feeling that he was about to meet up with the monstrous army) and she'd never have to think about him again.  
What about Rohan though? a voice inside Khamul demanded. It sounded disturbingly like Eorl. What about Morgoth, huh? What happens if he gets the Ring? You're sure going to need an ace, and you won't have one if Rohan's gone. That's the only thing he's ever feared. You need to make sure they're still alive, even if they are crippled. You never know when they're going to come in handy.  
With a sigh, Khamul turned her horse around. What could she do? She couldn't actively fight against Saruman, for that would be fighting against Sauron as well. She had to help them in some other way…   
The answer came seconds later when a Rider crested a hill and rode down to her. "Madam!" he called. "Forgive me, but we are rather badly lost."  
"Lost?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes, madam. My friends and I," The Rider indicated a large number of Riders who were following him, "escaped last night from orcs at the Fords of Isen. My name is Elfhelm, and I was wondering if you had seen our compatriots, Grimbold and his Riders."  
"I haven't," Khamul said. "I thought you said you were lost."  
"We are." Elfhelm took off his helmet and ran a hand through his yellow hair. "We don't actually know where we are," he said. "We were rather hoping that you might be able to help us with that, but seeing as you're…" He gestured hopelessly.  
"That I'm what?" Khamul asked.  
"You're…not from around here."  
"Where do you want to go?"  
"Well…Saruman is massing an attack on Edoras, so we had better head there."  
Khamul remembered the army. She also vaguely remembered where the city on the hill was from there. They'd been heading toward it, yes, but they'd been going toward the mountains as well. "Is there a fortress between the Fords and Edoras?" she asked.  
"Yes, Helm's Deep. The Hornburg. But they wouldn't attack there."  
"Why not?"  
"Well…the king wouldn't be there."  
"Is it easier to defend than Edoras?"  
"Yes, but –"  
"Then why wouldn't he be there?"  
Elfhelm opened and then closed his mouth. "You have a point," he said. "But Saruman's treachery runs deep. He may be attacking both Helm's Deep and Edoras."  
"I'd hedge my bet on the Hornburg."  
Elfhelm nodded. "I should send some people to Edoras though," he said. "If I knew where it was."  
Khamul, fortunately, knew where she'd come from. "Follow me," she said.  
"Ah, thank you, madam. For your kindness, I won't ask why you're traveling in the Riddermark."  
"Oh, is it a capital offense?"  
"Actually, yes."  
"Why am I not surprised?" Khamul muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "Follow me!" she shouted to the Riders and kicked her horse. A few warriors glared and muttered insults at the ill treatment of what was obviously a very fine steed.  
It wasn't long at all before they met up with another band of Riders.  
"Elfhelm!" the Rider called, waving his arms.  
"Grimbold!" Elfhelm shouted back. "You're alive!"  
"Barely! We had to fight our way out! I'm afraid I lost part of my force in the confusion."  
"Alas for so many brave souls."  
"No, they're not dead. They just…got lost."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "How is it that you've managed to rule this land for countless generations when you have such poor directional sense?" she asked.  
The two commanders ignored her. "We're heading to Helm's Deep and Edoras," Elfhelm said. "I'll send some men to Edoras to defend it against any attacks by Saruman while taking the majority of my riders to Helm's Deep."  
"Why would you do that?" Grimbold asked. "The people are at Edoras."  
"But if Theoden King had any knowledge of the attack, he would have moved to the Hornburg to better defend it."  
"And the women and children?"   
"Dunharrow, I suspect. A fine refuge, but too far. Besides, that would leave Edoras directly in the path of Saruman's army. Theoden King would want to avoid that."  
"You know anyone called Eowyn?" Khamul asked.  
Both commanders looked at her. "She is the King's niece," Elfhelm said. "Why?"  
"Just wondering." Well, well, well. Theoden and Eowyn. Names heard 'round the world, at least, they will be. If that's the real future.  
Elfhelm shrugged. "Will you join us?" he asked Grimbold.  
"Of course! I wouldn't miss this for the world!"  
"Touching," Khamul commented. "Can we leave now? If we do anymore talking, the only thing left of the Hornburg will be a pile of rocks."  
"I think you overestimate Saruman's strength," Grimbold said.  
"I don't think I do."  
The other half of Grimbold's force found them two hours later. Night had fallen and the Riders were quite lost. Khamul thought they were the most hopeless people she had ever met in her life.   
"You follow the stars, is that it?" Elfhelm asked.  
"I would, if there were any stars. Seeing as there aren't, I'm relying upon good old common sense."  
"Which would be…?"  
"When the sun went down, we were heading toward the Hornburg. Therefore, if we keep heading in that direction, we'll still be heading toward the Hornburg."  
Elfhelm nodded, at least, he probably did. It was quite hard to see, even for Khamul.  
It was only, Khamul estimated, an hour or so until dawn that she got the feeling that there were too many riders at the vanguard of the army. It was an army now. There were a thousand of them, all armed to the teeth and hungry for blood.  
"Elfhelm?" she asked.  
"Yes, madam?" the stately Rider responded.  
"Just making sure you were still there. Kind of dark around here. Grimbold?"  
"Here."  
"There's somebody else here, too."  
"What?"  
"Indeed," a low voice chuckled. "It took you long enough."  
"Gandalf!"  
"Gandalf!" Elfhelm and Grimbold gasped as one.  
"Got it in one," the White Wizard said. "I must confess myself surprised. I was looking forward to rounding up all the survivors of the Fords of Isen, but it seems Khamul has done it for me."  
"I bet you know where the Hornburg is," Khamul said.  
"Indeed I do. I do not know if you wish to become involved in this battle, Khamul, though I am grateful for–"  
"Don't say anything," Khamul said. "I'm leaving," she said. "Good luck to you all. You're going to need it."  
"Oh, we have more on our side than a thousand Riders, brave though they may be."  
"Oh yeah?"  
"I believe you have heard tales of Fangorn forest?"  
"I haven't."  
"Stop by Isengard on your way to the south. I think you would find it enlightening."  
"How do you know I'm going south?" Khamul asked. Gandalf didn't respond and Khamul sighed. First a cryptic mountain and now a cryptic wizard. Ah well, it was time to go home, for good or for ill. Most likely for ill.


	78. Treegarth

"Saruman's force should have destroyed Rohan by now," Sauron commented, standing before a faintly glowing palantir. "And so I wonder why he has not contacted me."  
"Perhaps he has the Ring," Melkor's voice hissed, like a serpent of doubt. "Perhaps he has the strength and power to defy Mordor."  
Sauron snorted. "He doesn't." He placed a hand on the palantir. Streaks of lightning shot through the orb under his fingers. "Saruman is not deigning to speak with me. How unfortunate for him."  
There was a short, rapid burst of knocking on the door.  
"Come in, Vorea," Sauron called. Each ringbearer had their own distinctive knock. Khamul didn't usually bother with knocking, Yanta had a very sluggish knock, Vorea's was military, Metima's was faint, Ceure's was quite delicate and lady-like, Aica just pounded on the door, and neither Ancalime nor Ringe had ever approached the Dark Lord.   
"I have returned from Rohan, sir," Vorea said, throwing up a salute as she walked in.  
"And? Is it in ruins?"  
"I fear I did not stay long enough to witness that. I encountered some difficulties traveling home."  
"What did you see?"  
"Saruman is treacherous not only to the West but to us as well. He has bred Men with orcs, creating –"  
"The fighting Uruk-hai," Sauron said. "Yes, I know. There is nothing that Saruman does that I do not know about. Is there anything else?"  
Vorea seemed rather disappointed to have her information already known. "As I passed over the Dead Marshes I seemed to spy something in the water, but when I came down for a closer look, there was nothing to be seen."  
"Because it was just the illusions of the water," Sauron said. "That is why the Men call the Marshes haunted."  
"It was alive. I am sure of it."  
"Perhaps it was a bird."  
"It was pale and stood out quite brightly against the dark marsh. Also, it was much larger than a bird."  
"Why are you telling me this if you don't even know what it is?"  
"It is information," Vorea said. "Information is valuable."  
Sauron sighed and shook his head. "I cannot imagine what it would be save for some luckless and stupid traveler. No doubt he met his fate in the depths of those vile waters. There is nothing to worry about. I'm glad you're here though."  
"How may I serve, Lord?"  
"Go to Isengard and find out what's wrong with Saruman."  
"Yes, my lord." Vorea spun on her heel and marched out of the room.  
"So Saruman has either lost it all, or he's decided to take you on," Melkor mused, glancing at the palantir. "Either way, Rohan will be in no position to save Minas Tirith from attack."  
"Excellent," Melkor purred. He stepped out of the shadows and into the eerie light cast by the palantir. "You will have the Ring soon, apprentice. And then I think it will be time to find out who will rule the land."  
Sauron smiled. "Indeed. I have no doubts as to who that will be."  
"No doubts at all," Melkor agreed.  
*  
Everywhere were the preparations for war. Minas Tirith fairly gleamed with the bright steel of armor and weapons. Civilians were being hustled off their farms and to safe areas. Safe. Ha. There were no more safe places.  
Vorea flew high, trying to avoid detection, but she heard cries from the city. Perhaps the sight of her would weaken their resolve, bring despair to them.  
The beacons of Gondor were not alight. Not yet. Denethor was waiting until the army was within sight. Until the invasion had begun. A foolish plan. The man was a fool, corrupted by Sauron in the palantir, consumed by despair. He should step aside and let a man with a mind fight against the hordes.  
There are no more worthy enemies, Vorea thought sourly. Denethor has fallen, Gandalf is destroyed, Theoden is dead and was never much to begin with, and the Heir is either dead or will be soon. There is no one to fight. There is nothing.  
Turning her sights to Isengard, Vorea frowned at the sudden greenery she could see around the fortress. Saruman had torn down all trees for miles. Where had this come from?  
*  
"Where did these trees come from?" Khamul snarled, knocking a branch aside as she rode down the road toward Isengard. It seemed a lot more…woody than before. Maybe Gandalf had done magic on it to make the trees grow fast, though as for why, she hadn't a clue.  
The sun had risen several hours ago, and it was turning into a rather nice day. Perfect for catching Saruman at home without any of his monster-orc guards.  
Khamul grinned. Nazgul versus Maia. Oh, this was going to be good.  
Reaching the gates of Isengard around noon, Khamul's jaw dropped. She'd become increasingly suspicious of the greenery, but this was…this was…   
Just when she thought she couldn't get any more surprised.  
The walls of Isengard were broken. Water covered much of the plain, and in that water walked…walked… Trees. Trees were walking around in the water. Orthanc stood defiantly against them, but the trees ignored the tower, although one occasionally hurled boulders at the walls, which did not so much as shudder.  
It took Khamul's mind a while to deal with the trees and Isengard and…everything. Things are going crazy, she thought. If trees start walking, that's a sure sign of it. All right, well… It doesn't matter. Trees can't move very fast. I can outrun them.  
Although I'd prefer not to have to get involved with them at all.  
Unfortunately, one particularly large tree spotted her and came over to the gate. "Hello, little Man," it called. "What brings you to the Treegarth of Orthanc?"  
"Uh…what?"  
"Treegarth." The tree gestured with one huge limb to the ruins of Isengard. "No longer is it Isengard, that land of steel and iron. Now it will be a garden. If we could, we would take the tower down as well, but so far it has resisted all our efforts."  
"So, Saruman…?"  
"Locked in his tower. Were you one of his spies?" The tree leaned disturbingly close and Khamul could see its huge yellow eyes.  
"No. No, definitely not. Not me. Um…wow… It's very impressive. Very impressive indeed. Now…I need to go somewhere." Khamul turned her horse away from the ruins and slapped the reins, though the horse needed no urging.  
The tree's laugh followed Khamul for quite some time. Valar, she thought. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. The trees are fighting us now! The trees! What's next?   
She was heading south now, straight for Gondor. She wasn't going to stop until she was safe, relatively speaking, in Minas Morgul.


	79. Visions in a Stone

The chamber was empty save for the Dark Lord. And the palantir. But the stone was not a person, per se. It was far more special.   
Placing his hands on the cold crystal, Sauron stared into the depths. What is Saruman doing? he wondered. What foolish games is he playing? I will crush him like an insect if he dares to stand against me.  
He made contact with the Orthanc palantir almost immediately. Colors and shapes swirled in the stone until they formed into the brownish face of a…of a…   
A Halfling!  
Sauron gasped, but immediately regained his composure. If he could see the creature, it could see him. He threw up a fairly standard defense against the creature, bombarding it with images of horror and destruction while he plumbed its mind for any information.  
A Halfling had the Orthanc stone. Since the Orthanc stone was in Isengard, Saruman must have the Halfling. Why bother to show him the creature though? Unless…unless…  
He had the Ring!  
This was the Halfling who carried the One! Sauron committed the face to memory, frowning in displeasure as the connection was suddenly broken. Saruman did not want the Dark Lord to do more than observe the White Wizard's triumph.  
"That bastard," Sauron hissed, placing the palantir back on its pedestal. If only he had the Nazgul here. He'd send them all against Isengard. But Vorea was already on her way. She would sort out Saruman and claim the Ring for Sauron. She was loyal…unlike so many of the others.  
"The end of this Age is coming rapidly upon us," Melkor purred as he slipped into the room like a shadow. "The orcs are assembled in Minas Morgul. They await only your signal. As do I," he whispered in the Dark Lord's ear. The whisper spoke of many things: soft beds, silken sheets, but also of whips and agony. A promise of what would occur following either victory or defeat.  
Sauron refused to be intimidated. He seized his former master's chin and kissed him harshly. "You will lead them into battle," he commanded. "Take Osgilith; they will surrender that quickly. Then lead them against the Tower of Guard itself. Break the invincible gates, burn the houses, kill everyone."  
"The city has seven gates," Melkor whispered. "Like Gondolin."  
"And like Gondolin, it shall fall." Sauron took the first Dark Lord in his arms and they sank down to the floor.   
*  
Vorea circled Isengard for several hours. The ents below would occasionally throw things at her, but they had terrible aim. Besides, the Fell Beast had a measure of self-preservation and never came within range of serious danger.  
What was she going to tell Sauron? That Isengard had been destroyed by a group of long-lost ents? That Saruman was imprisoned within his tower? He would laugh. And then he would look into the palantir and know it to be true.  
"Sir ents!" Vorea called, coming as close as she dared.  
The ents, for the most part, ignored her. One or two glanced up, but cursed her and looked away.  
"Mordor does not curse you for what you have done. Saruman was a traitor to us as surely as to the West. We thank you for your service! And ask a favor."  
"Go back to the shadow!" one large ent bellowed, pointing a crooked limb at her.  
"Have any come here besides your gracious selves? Has the new king of Rohan arrived? Some envoy of his?"  
"Why should there be a new king?" one small ent squeaked. "Theoden's still alive!"  
Truly? Then perhaps others survived as well. "Did he come to these very gates?" Vorea called.  
"Indeed he did," the large ent growled. "And many with him."  
"Who might those have been, honored ent?"  
"Gandalf the White, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and many more besides. They took the Halflings with them back to Edoras."   
Gandalf the White. Saruman wore white, and Gandalf was dead. What strange melding was this? "I see. Thank you, good ent." Back to Mordor, Vorea thought. Sauron would be able to make better sense of this.  
*  
Early the next morning, Sauron found himself still on the floor of the palantir chamber, staring up at the cold stone ceiling. Melkor was gone, back to Minas Morgul to prepare for war. Minas Tirith was doomed and hadn't even realized it yet.  
Denethor probably had though. Sauron had nearly driven the old steward insane, though the death of his favored son seemed to be completing that job. The Dark Lord wouldn't have been surprised if the steward killed himself before the invasion was complete.  
All the better. Minas Tirith would collapse without a leader. The legends of Gandalf's resurrection were exaggerated. Besides, he was in Rohan. From that land to Gondor was but a step, but from Edoras to Minas Tirith was a leap. He would never be able to arrive in time.  
The palantir was doing something strange. Standing up, Sauron gazed down at the stone while adjusting his clothes. Someone was using it with the express wish of contacting him.  
Snarling, Sauron picked up the palantir, already seeing Saruman's sneering face. He would break the Istari's mind here and now if he dared gloat.  
But it was not the hawk-nosed Istari staring out of the crystal with black eyes. Instead, the noble visage of Elendil looked out with gray eyes that had seen too much sadness and death in their time. For a moment Sauron thought it was Elendil himself, resurrected and younger, out for vengeance for himself, his sons, and his people.  
Then the Dark Lord relaxed. It was the Heir, the last of a fallen house and broken line. "So Saruman has captured the Heir as well," he mused. He was starting to become uneasy. To have both the Halfling and the Heir use the stone, but not Saruman? Something didn't sit right…  
And then Sauron gasped. The Heir said nothing but held up a sword. A shining blade etched with runes the Dark Lord knew only too well. Even from the vast distance that separated them, Sauron could still feel the power of the blade, its thirst for his blood.  
Narsil.  
But Narsil was shattered, broken. It had broken on his armor in Elendil's last, valiant stand. The blade was in two pieces, kept in Rivendell.   
But it had been reforged. There was no mistaking that hilt, that blade, nor the hunger that seeped out of it.   
The Heir of Isildur held the sword of kings. He needed only the crown now. And this was his way of telling Sauron he was out to claim it.  
With a snarl, Sauron hurled the palantir away from him, only realizing seconds later that in that moment of blind fury the Heir had been allowed a glimpse into his mind. Hopefully whatever he'd seen had driven him mad. But there were plans there, important things, that no one of the West could know.  
What was done was done and could not be undone. Sauron sank down on a chair and stared at the faintly glowing palantir across the room. His worst fears had been realized. The Heir was going to claim his throne. This could not be allowed to happen.  
Rising, Sauron plucked up the palantir and set it on its stand before leaving the chamber.   
"My lord?" an orc asked, saluting as Sauron passed him.  
"Send more orcs to Minas Morgul, and send a message to our Haradrim and southern allies," the Dark Lord commanded. "They have four days to arrive in Morgul Vale. On March tenth, we march for Minas Tirith."  
"Yes, my lord!"


	80. All's Well

"My lord!"  
"How deep does Saruman's treachery run?" Sauron demanded as Vorea strode in, looking shaken. It took a lot to shake the third ringbearer, and already Sauron's heart was falling.  
"Saruman's armies have been destroyed, Isengard lies in ruins, and the wizard is a prisoner in Orthanc."  
Sauron raised an eyebrow. "What army of the Valar accomplished this feat?"  
"Theoden's army was trapped in the fortress of Helm's Deep as Saruman's Uruk-hai lay siege. With the rising of the sun, Gandalf the White brought reinforcements, which, together with a large group of Huorns, destroyed the army."  
"Huorns? The ents have awoken?"  
"Indeed. A small army of them laid waste to Isengard. They call it Treegarth now."  
Sauron nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "Well, we can expect no help from Saruman then." He frowned. "Did you get a look at the Rohirrim's numbers?"  
"A very scant look, my lord. Helm's Deep was painful, but by no means a disaster. They will be able to send aid to Gondor, though how much aid, I do not know."  
"Certainly nothing substantial," Sauron murmured. "Rohan has ever relied on bravery far more than numbers. And against the might of Mordor, what use is bravery?"  
"Is a date set for the invasion?"  
"In four days we shall march to Osgiliath. Melkor will lead the armies, and you shall accompany him."  
"Yes, my lord."  
"Try to ensure that he doesn't do anything remarkably stupid."  
"He is a powerful Vala, I doubt he –"  
"You can never tell with him," Sauron hissed. "Go. Get out of my sight."  
Vorea raised an eyebrow, but bowed and left.  
Though it had started slow, the Third Age was speeding toward a finish. Though what that finish was…  
Sauron closed his eyes and propped his head up on his fingers. They are taking the Ring somewhere, he thought. Where? South, yes, but there are many things in the south. Minas Tirith? What fools they would be, and yet… I cannot have the Ring in Minas Tirith.  
And if it is not Minas Tirith? Where then? They could have cast it into the Anduin long ago. So they do not mean to destroy it. No, they do not mean to lose it. To destroy it would mean to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom…  
Sauron's heart skipped a beat. The Ring was headed south, either to Minas Tirith, as seemed likely, or perhaps Mordor where…where… They sought to destroy him utterly!   
They couldn't though, Sauron desperately assured himself. They wouldn't be able to. The Ringbearer would have grown attached to the Ring by now. He would never be able to cast it away. Particularly if he were something as weak as a Halfling.  
So there was nothing to worry about. Let him bring the Ring to Mordor! Sauron would be waiting for him. He would recall all his Nazgul, station them around Mordor. No creature, no matter how small, would slip through his net.  
The words of Caradhras came back to him now. I let Lungorthin live, Sauron thought, and Gandalf fell fighting him. But he came back, stronger than before.   
Two Maiar will die, two kings will die, and a tower will fall.  
Two Maiar. Saruman was one, but the other? Gandalf. Gandalf died, and so did Saruman. There. The prophecy was fulfilled.  
And as for the kings?  
Sauron smiled. There was a battle coming and the king of Rohan was sure to be in attendance. His head would roll, as would that of the Heir if he dared show his face.   
And the tower?  
The Tower of Ecthelion when Sauron's armies marched through the streets of Minas Tirith.  
Sauron leaned back in his throne. The world was right again. The Ring was coming to him, carried unwittingly by some idiotic Halfling, Saruman was imprisoned and powerless, and Minas Tirith was about to fall.  
There really did not seem to be a downside to the happenings of the world.  
And then the door of the Barad-dur flew open and Khamul stormed in.  
"You're letting him lead the army?!" she demanded.  
Sauron blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately… When he was sure she wasn't a hallucination, he spoke. "Why aren't you in Dol Guldur?" he asked.  
"I left someone really capable in charge," Khamul said.  
"Who?"  
"Never mind. Why is Morgoth leading the army against Minas Tirith?"  
"Because he is the most powerful ringbearer, not to mention a fallen Vala."  
"And why is Vorea going with him?"  
"Because she understands tactics and is a very fine warrior. Besides, it is always good to have a capable second-in-command, just in case something…unfortunate happens."  
"Why am I not in the army?"  
"Because you are supposed to be in Dol Guldur. Why don't you return there? I know where every Nazgul is except for Ancalime, and if I find out you left her alone there with an exceedingly large army, I will not be pleased."  
"I am the second ringbearer, not Vorea. Why am I not in the army?"  
"You are untrustworthy, insubordinate, and supposed to be in Dol Guldur!"  
"Fine," Khamul said. "Fine. I'll just go back there, shall I?"  
"Yes!"  
"When's this battle taking place anyway?"  
"Leave."  
"Fine. We're attacking on the eleventh, just in case you don't want there to be any conflict. I mean, conflict between our attacking schedules."  
"Goodbye, Khamul."  
Khamul left and immediately seized an orc that had the misfortune to be passing by. "When's the attack?" she hissed.  
"They're leaving on the tenth!" the orc gasped.  
"Good." Khamul dropped him and strode down the hallway. Now, all she had to do was find a place to lay low for a few days before slipping out with the army. She was going to see what happened, Sauron be damned.


	81. The Dawnless Day

Melkor stared out over the Morgul Vale. The army was in place, ready for his signal. It was going to be impressive, that signal. He'd been working on it specially.  
All was quiet, all was still. The monsters at the gate of Minas Morgul stood eternal watch, but the Dark Lord liked to watch as well. His eyes narrowed as he saw something move. Several somethings. One was horribly pale and moved about on four legs as easily as any animal. The other two things were about the same size, but walked as Men despite their short stature.  
Halflings.   
Melkor hissed and breathed in a deep breath of air. He still couldn't smell anything. Perhaps they had the Ring, perhaps not.  
One by one, the Halflings scrambled up a set of stairs. The stairs to the pass of Cirth Ungol. One of the many reasons Melkor despised living here. The constant reminder of Ungoliant was a vicious jab from Sauron.   
Well, won't have to worry about them again, he thought, watching the Halflings without much interest. Shelob will eat them and pick clean their bones. And if they just happened to have the Ring, well, the orcs will find it soon enough and bring it to me. They are Morgul orcs, after all.  
Most of them.  
Melkor dismissed the thought immediately. He still lived partly in the First Age, where there had been only one type of orc: those loyal to him. The divisions among the orcs in the Third Age was unknown to him. And the bitter enmity between Morgul and Mordor orcs was ignored by Sauron, and perhaps even slightly encouraged.  
And then, the signal. Orodruin shuddered and then erupted, spewing fire into the sky.   
"Rally the orcs!" Melkor roared, dismissing the Halflings and hurrying down to the courtyard. "Send up the signal! We ride to Osgiliath! And war!"  
A pillar of eerie green light shot up from the tower, piercing the clouds and sending bolts of the same green lightning crackling through them.  
They were in remarkable shape, his orcs. The Haradrim were on their war elephants, the Variags in their chariots. They all awaited him, and Melkor took his time. He walked slowly to the front of his army, admiring the way his soldiers stood in perfectly straight lines…relatively.   
"Your horse, my lord," a misshapen orc growled, holding out the reins to a midnight black steed.  
"My thanks." In one quick movement, Melkor swung himself onto his horse. High above on the tower of Minas Morgul, his Fell Beast shrieked. Near it was another with Vorea in the saddle. She would guide them both to the battlefield.  
"And now we march to war!" the Dark Lord screamed, drawing his sword and raising it above his head. "Open the gates!"  
The gates were opened and the army of Minas Morgul streamed forth, marching in thunderous steps to Osgiliath.  
Melkor spared a glance at the stairs to the spider's lair. The hideously pale creature was no longer visible, no doubt cowering somewhere in terror. The Halflings, however, were. Their heads poked up as they tried to inconspicuously view the army.  
"Now to wrath," Melkor sneered, "now to ruin. And a red dawn. If there is a dawn, which I doubt very much."  
There was no dawn. The darkness of Mordor covered the land as Melkor's had done millennia before. The orcs cackled with glee at this turn of events. The sun burned them terribly, and this darkness meant they could use their strength to its fullest extent.  
At the very back of the army, traveling on foot near the Easterlings and glowering fiercely at anyone who gave her a glance, Khamul followed the army. The elves were a broken, weak people. Ancalime could handle them, and even if she couldn't, who cared? It was by Men that the fate of the world be decided, and Khamul fully intended to present at that determination.  
The massive army wound its way through the Morgul Vale and toward Osgiliath. Soon the ruined towers and once-proud buildings came into view and the orcs gave a throaty cheer. The Men were fairly unimpressed. It was just rubble, another ruin. They had no conception of the strength that it had once wielded, and of the power that it had taken to crush it.  
Khamul wanted to punch some of the Men who rolled their eyes at the orcs' excitement. How dare they make light of thousands of years of hard work? The bastards.  
They slipped across the river in many boats, as silent as the grave. Only once the orcs were across was there noise, shouts and screams and metal-clad bodies hitting the ground as the defenders fell.  
"Come on, come on," Khamul growled as the army slowly made its way across the Anduin. She wanted to fight the Gondorians. She was tired of standing around, especially around disgusting orcs and irritating Men. She wanted to cut some heads off.  
By the time Khamul reached Osgiliath, the defenders were either dead or fleeing to Minas Tirith with their tails between their legs.  
The orcs were cackling at the runners and taking bets as to whether they would make it. The general consensus among the Men was that they would, but the orcs disagreed.  
A piercing shriek split the air and the Men gasped, covering their ears. The orcs hooted, already counting their winnings as Nazgul on winged monsters swooped down from the sky, massive talons extended, ready to pick up fleeing men and beasts alike.  
"Some'll make it," a one-eyed Easterling said as he leaned on a spear. He seemed too old to be in a war.  
"No they won't," an orc disagreed. "Those Shriekers'll cut 'em to pieces they will. And scatter 'em all o'er the land."  
"Who's that riding out then?"  
Khamul frowned and looked out over the Pelennor field. Sure enough, a white rider on a white horse was foolishly charging out of the city and toward the Nazgul.   
"What a damn fool," the Easterlings muttered.  
"Shut up," Khamul snapped. It wasn't a fool. It was Gandalf. She'd know him anywhere. But how had he gotten here so fast?   
The orcs hooted and laughed as the Nazgul snatched up men and horses, but their laughter died in their throats as Gandalf…did something. The Nazgul whirled and spun away, frightened out of their wits, or unable to approach him.   
"Elven magic," one orc spat.  
"You owe us some money," the Easterlings said with savage grins.  
Khamul quickly slunk away as the Nazgul returned to the ruined city. She didn't want to be recognized by anyone for a good long time. After all, she was supposed to be in Dol Guldur.   
Oh Valar… Speaking of the fortress in Mirkwood, she couldn't help but wonder what disaster Ancalime had wrought.  
*  
The orcs huddled around the border of the wood, uncertain as to what they were supposed to do. It had been ingrained in their minds that they were supposed to wait for the order to charge before they did so, and yet, that order was not coming. Here they were, on the edge of Lorien, and the order to attack had not come. They were starting to get edgy and restless.  
"Um, sir?" one of the chief captains of the orcs hissed.  
"Hm? Are you talking to me?" Ancalime asked.  
"Yes, sir."  
"Oh, sir. I've never been called sir before. Please, madam works so much better. I am, after all, a lady."  
"Ah, right… Er, madam. Generally, if you want to start a battle, you give the order to charge."  
"Oh yes! Khamul mentioned something about that. What do I do?"  
"Well, traditionally, you shout 'charge' and go into the fray yourself."  
"I'm not very good at fighting."  
The orc sighed. "All right, then just shout 'charge'. Others will take up the cry and go to battle."  
"Should I do anything else?"  
"No. Please don't."  
Ancalime smiled and nodded. "Charge!" she yelled, pointing at the rich green wood.   
The orcs jumped to their feet, shook off their drowsiness, and started running at the wood, shrieking warcries and screaming for blood.  
"My, they are rather bloodthirsty," Ancalime remarked to the grass and the wind. She was alone on the grassy plain before the woods.   
Ancalime waited for a while before dismounting from her horse and sitting down in the grass. The orcs were sure taking their time about winning the war.


	82. By No Hand of Man

Melkor drew in a deep breath of air and smiled. How could he not? The fear coming off the city was like the smell of fresh-baked bread rising from the hot loaf. It was something to be savored, and slowly devoured.   
"Is Grond ready?" he asked, despising the name. Damn Sauron for that jibe. He would have his former apprentice on his knees, begging for mercy, yet.  
"Aye," Vorea said, nodding. "When you call, it shall come."  
"Is it protected from archers? I trust Gondor will have its walls lined with them."  
"Trolls operate it. Their hides are notoriously impervious to arrows."  
Melkor nodded. "Good. I would not like to have to use orcs to break open the gate."  
"They would not be able to. There goes a saying among the people of Gondor that no enemy has ever stepped beyond the gates."  
"How unfortunate that this is the day it will proved untrue."  
The army crept out of Osgiliath like a spreading cancer, stretching its tendrils out over the pristine Pelennor Fields. The orcs trampled flowers and grass under their marching feet, their eyes fixed on the city.   
"This will be a great victory," Vorea said.  
"Indeed," Melkor said. "Is there any word out of Rohan? Will Theoden come to Gondor's aid?"  
Vorea shook her head. "The messenger bearing the Red Arrow was slain ere he reached Rohan. Without that, Theoden will not know to come."  
"But what of the beacons?"  
"Rohan has troubles enough of its own without adding the wars of Gondor. Even if they do come, their numbers are insignificant. Besides, we have the Corsairs."  
"Ah yes, the famous Corsairs of Umbar. And how are they doing?"  
"We…" Vorea hesitated, "lost contact with them two days back, but we assume that is due to their penchant for ignoring orders when they are in battle."  
"Battle?"  
"They are raiding the lands as they travel up the river."  
Melkor nodded. "Just so long as they do not take forever to come here. I have no desire to need allies suddenly and find myself alone."  
"Our forces are far superior to anything the Gondorians could muster."  
Melkor smiled. "Of course."  
"There is, though, Gandalf to consider."  
"Do not worry about the Maia. A Power he may be, but I am a greater one."  
The siege was laid on Minas Tirith. The defenders fought back as best they could, but the city was shivering. If rock could tremble, Minas Tirith would have shaken itself to rubble from terror. The orcs saw it and laughed.  
Darkness fell, covering the land with a night so complete a man could not see his hand if he held it in front of his face. The torches were pinpricks of light, illuminating the defenders' fearful faces. The orcs needed no torches. Darkness was their element.  
"The gates have held too long," Melkor said lazily, observing the sturdy doors that had held up for millennia. "Bring out Grond."  
The orcs screamed and cheered, nearly dancing in their glee to see the city fall. Minas Tirith could tell its doom was nigh. A shudder seemed to go through the city as the massive battering ram was brought forward by grunting trolls.  
Melkor made a dismissive gesture and the trolls slammed the great ram, its iron head in the shape of a wolf with fangs bared and ears pulled back, at the gate.  
He could feel the force of the blow, as could his horse, which stepped back from the shockwave. "Again," Melkor said calmly. Dreadful words in the mouth of the Dark Lord. Never for something trivial or pleasing, always for pain and suffering. Again the whip falls, again the rack turns, again the ram slams against the invincible gates of Minas Tirith, and this time cracks appear.  
He could hear the murmurs of the defenders. Their last shield was crumbling. It could have only kept them safe for so long. It would break, as all shields did, when the stakes were the highest, when it was needed the most.  
It splintered upon the third blow, and fell apart on the fourth. And so the last shield of Minas Tirith fell and its forces and people lay open to the ravaging army of Sauron.  
His head held high, a savage smile on his lips, Melkor rode toward the gate. He would cross the threshold, first of all enemies – if the tale was true – to do so.   
His horse trod upon the cobblestones of Minas Tirith. And suddenly there was a white horse before him, and an aged rider upon the horse.  
"Gandalf," Melkor whispered.  
"You shall go no further," Gandalf said.  
"You said as much to the balrog, and you died for your trouble. Against me there can be no resurrection."  
"You shall not enter this city!"  
"I already have," Melkor laughed. He was about to draw his sword and cut down the Maia where he stood when he heard something. Just on the edge of his hearing. It sounded in his mind as the horns of the Valar had sounded at the dawning of the War of Wrath. A death knell.  
Gandalf seemed as startled as he was, and so Melkor whipped around to find the source of this noise. Had some people come to the aid of the beleaguered folk of Minas Tirith?  
Hissing, Melkor spotted them. There, upon a hill. A great host of riders, surrounded by a halo of dawn's light. The orcs were already whining as the darkness fell away.  
"We will settle this later," Melkor hissed, turning his horse from the gate and riding through his army.  
Vorea was keeping the orcs together, for they were starting to fall back, frightened by the unexpected army, but more by the light.  
"Stand your ground, you maggots!" Melkor snarled. He called to the Fell Beasts that whirled in the sky high above. The horsemen thought they had the advantage, but wings and talons would beat horses every time.  
With a wild cry, the horsemen charged, thundering down into the plains, their long hair flowing in the wind, their shining swords reflecting the dawn's rays.   
It was a massacre when they met the orcs. The horsemen slaughtered them, cutting through their ranks as though they were wheat.   
But no matter how many the horsemen killed, there were ten to take the fallen's place. The army of the Dark Lord was inexhaustible, and the horsemen were already starting to grind to a halt, their wild charge stopped and gradually turned back.  
Peering down at his enemies, Melkor gasped. It was the Rohirrim! So, they had come to Gondor's aid after all. They had to be stopped. They had to be crushed, disheartened, and swiftly.  
Spotting a snow-white horse, Melkor flew lower. The rider's armor was finer than his fellows'. He was also shouting orders as the Haradrim and their Mumakil came charging in, slaughtering and stomping, crushing friend and foe alike under their huge feet.  
The rider looked up and shouted a challenge as the Fell Beast came swooping down, gouging deep rents in the snow-white horse's sides and sending it to the ground, crushing the rider beneath it.  
Melkor chuckled to himself, seeing the despair evident in the other riders' faces. They kept their distance as the Fell Beast hissed and flapped its wings, snapping viciously at anyone nearby.  
The man was probably already dead, killed by the weight and impact of his horse. Still, Melkor wanted to make sure. He was about to dismount and cut off the man's head when a man stepped in front of him.  
"Do not stand before the Lord of the Nazgul and his prey," he said, almost pitying the poor fool.   
The man did not respond but raised his sword and brought it down on the Fell Beast's neck. The thing writhed and snapped, but the sword fell again and again until the head and neck were severed.   
The Fell Beast's body writhed and jerked. Melkor jumped off before he could be crushed like the fallen rider beneath his steed.   
So, he was to ride by horse into Minas Tirith at the end of this battle. Ah well, he had never liked Fell Beasts anyway. Now, the Haradrim were making quick work of the Rohirrim. The horsemen seemed to have faltered when Melkor had killed or injured the rider. He was their king then. Theoden. Excellent.  
The man raised his sword, standing between Melkor and the fallen Theoden. Trying to defend their beloved king, or perhaps a closer bond? Was this an heir to the throne of Rohan? All the better to kill then.  
The man's mettle had not left him since killing the Fell Beast. He stood straight and tall, no shaking wracking his body. There was no tremble in his sword.  
Melkor smiled nastily. I'll reduce you to a quivering wreck before I kill you, he promised. No one gains even a single victory against me without suffering horribly for it. "Stand aside," he said, "or else I shall bear you away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where your flesh shall be devoured, and your shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."  
The man snorted and stood all the more proudly. He thought he could win against the Witch-King of Angmar. Perhaps he would have thought he could win against Melkor if he had known just who it was that he faced.  
Cursing, Melkor struck at the man with his mace, but his shield caught the worst of the blow. It shattered into pieces and the man cursed under his breath, wringing his arm and wincing.  
Melkor laughed. "No living man can hinder me," he said. Much less slay me.  
The man drew himself up to his full height and cast off his helmet, releasing a cascade of golden hair. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and king. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."  
Melkor was momentarily stunned and paused in his attack. A woman then. Like Luthien, only with golden hair instead of midnight dark.   
Yes. Very like unto Luthien.  
But Luthien died and so would this woman, who could not claim the blood of a Maia nor even a single drop of elven blood.  
Something struck him below the knee and Melkor fell to his knees. A stab of agony. No matter, he would soon be on his feet again. A momentary inconvenience.  
And there was the woman before him, wrath bright in her eyes. Eyes as bright as the Valar. Hate as strong as Tulkas's, wrath as powerful as Orome's.   
Melkor raised a hand weakly, trying in vain to fend off oblivion.   
The sword struck him right between the eyes. It tore through his skull, wrenching apart all the magic that bound him to this world. In a horrible moment it was all torn away, and the Void came howling upon him. The Door of Night slammed shut with a finality that shook him to his core.   
It was over. The prophecy had been fulfilled. The first Dark Lord had been vanquished.


	83. Black Sails

Vorea felt very little when she saw Morgoth fall. There was not the slightest ounce of grief nor even disappointment. Yet neither was there relief. There was just a slight lightness in her heart as she turned her attention to the trembling orcs, staring with wide eyes at their fallen lord.   
"Rally to me!" she yelled, thrusting her metal spear into the air. It caught the dawn's rays and flashed brightly. We do not need Morgoth to win this battle, she thought. When the Corsiars arrive we shall slaughter the Rohirrim and take the city.  
As Vorea led the orcs and Men once more into battle the other Nazgul wheeled high above. Aica's shrieks of laughter were clearly audible. It was Morgoth who had fallen, but her vengeance still seemed complete. For with Morgoth's downfall, Morion was surely dead.  
Ringe observed the scene with little emotion, save that his eyes lingered on the tangle of black robes that were all that remained of his former lover. His face was grim, but there was a slight tightening around his mouth and he turned away from his laughing sister.  
Ceure sighed. "I always disliked him," she said. "The world is a better place without him."  
"Don't we know it," Yanta said. She spat, aiming for the pile of black robes. "Did I hit it?" she asked, leaning over in the saddle.  
"I doubt it," Metima said. "We're pretty high up in the air."  
"Do you suppose Sauron knows?" Ceure asked.  
"Knows what?" Yanta asked.  
"That Morgoth is dead!"  
"I don't know. Probably. Suppose one of us should go and tell him though. I want to watch the battle."  
"Me too," Metima said.   
"This is a battle for Gondor itself," Ceure said. "I am certainly not leaving."  
"We need a new leader now," Aica said suddenly.  
"What?" Yanta asked.  
"A new leader. Morion and Morgoth are gone. We need a new Witch-King."  
"Be Khamul, wouldn't it?"  
Aica snorted. "She's not loyal. In fact, she's the least loyal of us all."  
"Who do you think it should be then?"  
"Why, me."  
"You?" Yanta laughed. "In your dreams."  
Aica bristled. "I've been the most valuable ringbearer for centuries now," she spat. "All the information I've discovered has led to countless victories!"  
"Still don't know how you got it when I've yet to see a single spy."  
"They're very stealthy!"  
"I think you're keeping something from us, and I'm sure not going to side with you when you're keeping secrets."  
"Who do you think it should be then?" Aica snarled.  
"If Khamul's out, then Vorea. She's next in line."  
"She is managing the battle," Metima pointed out, gesturing down at the battlefield where the orcs were steadily gaining ground against the Rohirrim, pushing them back to the Anduin.  
"A battle that will be soon over," Ceure said grimly.  
"Eh? Why?"  
Ceure didn't answer but pointed to the horizon.   
"Black sails," Yanta said. "Corsairs."  
*  
Khamul had seen Morgoth fall. Stabbed through the head by a woman. Eowyn. She'd recognized her at once, remembering the wagon in the plains of Rohan. Morgoth's doom had come from that land after all then. And so, indirectly, from the savior of Eorl. Her.  
She smiled briefly, but then the smile faded. With the death of Morgoth, the last part of Morion was gone. He would be in Mandos now. Beyond her reach forever.  
Khamul stared at the black robes for a moment, perhaps more than a moment. She finally turned away and walked toward the river, intending to help with the fight there.   
She saw the sails on the horizon. Caught between the orcs of Sauron and the Corsairs of Umbar, she thought. I suppose they could always jump into the river and hope to swim across without getting shot in the back by an arrow.  
Her heart felt like lead. Morion was gone. Forever. Passed beyond her reach for all eternity. It made her want to rage and fight, but there was nothing to fight against. It was fate, it was their curse.  
Damn this eternal life. Khamul would have thrown the ring off and stomped it into oblivion if it would have meant she could have met Morion again.  
Something caught her eye and she looked up at a blaze upon the mast of the flagship of the Corsairs.  
"What is that?" she muttered, squinting and shielding her eyes with her hand.  
Gems. Dozens of gems embedded in fine black fabric. Gems that created a symbol, a symbol that the citizens of Gondor lived under all their days. A symbol lacking in power for more than a thousand years. Until…  
"The White Tree!" Khamul gasped. More than that. It was the Tree, encircled with seven stars. The emblem of the King of Gondor, not seen in these parts since the death of Earnur.  
She knew it even before the ships landed. It was Estel, but Estel no longer. He was Aragorn…no, that wasn't it either. He wasn't a child sheltered from his bitter legacy. He wasn't a wandering ranger, lord of a lost people. He was a king come out of the West to claim his throne.   
He was Elessar.  
The Rohirrim cheered and the orcs hissed in confusion, and not even Vorea could keep them in check as Elessar and his army poured out of the ships, cutting them down like grass.  
Khamul didn't know what to do. Her sword was heavy in her hand. She couldn't fight Elessar. Let someone else kill him. But deep in her heart Khamul knew that no one else would. He was Elessar, King of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor, and there was no one in this world who could slay him.  
She ran. She ran until she came to Osgiliath along with other deserters. And there was her horse, biting and lashing out at any who tried to seize it. Any except her.  
When she returned to Minas Morgul, Khamul continued on, passing into Mordor via the narrow valley. Orodruin rumbled threateningly in the distance, expressing Sauron's utmost displeasure with the battle.   
Should've come yourself then, Khamul thought angrily. You can't blame us. When you want something done right, you should damn well do it yourself.  
She shoved the guards out of the way and burst into the throne room of the Barad-dur. Sauron was sitting on his throne, resting his chin on his hand. He looked at ease, though Orodruin betrayed his mood.  
"Why aren't you in Dol Guldur?" he asked quietly.  
"I didn't feel like being there," Khamul said.  
"Even now the orcs are fighting the elves of Mirkwood and Lorien. The battle does not go well."  
"Kind of like with the Pelennor Fields, huh?"  
Sauron looked at her sharply. "I have seen that my orcs are fleeing. Clearly, the battle was lost. Where is Melkor?"  
He didn't know? Well, well, well, fancy that.  
"What?" Sauron asked, seeing the grin on Khamul's face.  
"He's dead."  
"What?!"  
"A woman killed him. Stabbed him in the face and he burst apart."  
Sauron cursed under his breath and was perfectly still for a moment. Then, a smile spread over his face. "Saruman's power is broken, and now Morgoth falls too. There are no more rivals for me."  
"You don't have the Ring yet."  
"True, but it is all a matter of time."   
Khamul rolled her eyes. "What'd you want me to do?" she asked.  
"Clearly you are going to do nothing of what I ask. Still, do nothing. The Ring is close. I can feel it."  
"In Minas Tirith?"  
"Perhaps. Ah, yes, that would be where they would bring it. The last seat of my enemies' power in Middle-Earth. A good thing I committed few forces to the Pelennor disaster."  
"What?" Khamul gasped.  
"What?"  
"A few forces? There were over ten thousand orcs there! And that's just the orcs!"  
"Oh, Khamul, surely you know that I would never throw away all my strength on one desperate gamble." Sauron chuckled. "I always have a contingency plan."  
"All right. Then what's your plan for Morgoth getting killed? Who's in charge now?"  
"Me. The Nazgul are to hunt for the Ring and bring it to me when they find it."  
"Excuse me?"  
"What is it now?"  
"The Nazgul?"  
"Yes, that is what you are."  
"You've always called us 'ringbearers' before."  
Sauron waved a hand. "They are synonymous."  
"No, they aren't. 'Ringbearers' means having a ring of power. 'Nazgul' means being a slave to the Ring, and so, you. Kind of a difference, wouldn't you say?"  
"Go and find me the Ring, Khamul."  
"You wish," Khamul growled, and stormed out of the Barad-dur, taking care to slam the door on her way out.


	84. Not From Around Here

"He's a damn fool."  
"Ah, come on now. He fought 'or us."  
"What makes you say that? Doesn't look like he did much fighting anyway. Getting killed, yes, but not much killing."  
"You e'er seen a man o' the dark who looked like 'at?"  
"Well…no."  
"Looks ta me like a proper lord o' Gondor."  
"That's stretching it a bit far. Looks like a man of the south to me. Morthond Vale, I'd say."  
The other man shook his head and leaned on his shield. He was from Morthond himself. "Mah lords would ne'er let a man go inta battle like 'at," he said. "Ain't got no armor, do 'e? No weapon neither. Wouldn't last ten seconds. Didn't, either, by the looks o' 'im."  
"Well, where's he from then? We can't just dump him with the rest of the bodies. We have to put him in his proper place."  
The Morthond soldier eyed the body. "I'd say 'e was one o' Forlong's soldiers."  
"Forlong? Forlong of Lossarnach?"  
"Aye, Forlong the Fat."  
"What makes you say that?"  
"'E ain't got no armor. No proper lord'd let 'is soldier go ta war like 'at. Forlong would, carin' as 'e did 'or 'ood an' drink alone."  
"What's going on over here?"   
The soldiers snapped to attention as a tall man came over. Now he had the look of a proper lord of Gondor, they both agreed with a glance.   
"Sorry, my lord," the first soldier, a man of Minas Tirith, said. "We were just debating where this poor fellow was from. I am thinking that he was from Morthond Vale, while my companion believes he was from Lossarnach."  
"Well, let me have a look. I've traveled these lands enough I think I should know the differences between the people of Gondor."  
"You can look if you like, lord, but it's hard to see much. Blood's all over his face."  
"Lookit 'is arms," the Morthond soldier said. "Looks like 'e got too close to one o' them Shriekers."  
"You speak like an orc," the Minas Tirith soldier muttered under his breath.  
The tall lord paid them no attention and knelt down next to the body. He picked up one of the fallen man's arms and examined the long black lines under the skin.  
"Ain't nothin' ya can do 'or 'im," the Morthond soldier said. "'E's dead."  
"No, he's not," the lord said. He picked up the body, which lay limp in his arms. "And, just for the record, he's not from Morthond Vale or Lossarnach."  
"Then where?" the Minas Tirith soldier asked.  
"Andunie."  
*  
As Aica passed down the hallway, Khamul reached out and dragged her into the room before slamming the door shut.  
"What're you doing?" the seventh ringbearer hissed.  
"Let me see the palantir," Khamul said.  
"No!"  
"Then look for something for me!"  
"Why should I do a single thing for you?" Aica snarled. She tossed her head proudly. "I am going to be the leader of the ringbearers soon enough."  
"I've spoken with Sauron. He's taking direct charge for now."  
"What?" Aica hissed.  
"Talk to Sauron about it. Now, look for something."  
"What is it?"  
"First, Ancalime. She's in Dol Guldur."  
Aica rolled her eyes. "Fine," she muttered. She stared into the palantir for a while before snickering.  
"What is it?"  
"She's losing. Badly. They're almost beaten back to Dol Guldur. The elves are displeased."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. What could you expect from Aica? "Well, that's fine."  
"I doubt Sauron's fine with it."  
"I don't care. Now, find the Ring."  
"If I could do that, I'd have it myself by now," Aica snarled.  
"It's close. Sauron thinks it's in Minas Tirith, but I'm not so sure." She didn't trust Aica one ounce, but she had no choice, much as it pained her. She needed to know where the Ring was, even if it turned into a race between her and Aica. Besides, if it did, she could always crush the seventh ringbearer's skull with the palantir.  
"I can't just find it like that," Aica muttered. Still, she stared into the palantir, Khamul watching her while fingering her sword. Perhaps she should just cut off the seventh ringbearer's head. A preemptive strike. Although…would it grow back or would she just put it back on? Maybe Khamul should hide it.  
"See anything?" she asked. There was also no telling that Aica wouldn't see the Ring and then tell Khamul she'd seen nothing.   
"No," Aica said, sounding genuinely disappointed and irritated.  
"All right," Khamul said. "Keep an eye on Ancalime. Make sure she doesn't screw up too badly."  
Aica's bitter glare told Khamul that she would do no such thing. Not that Khamul had expected Aica to, but it was fun to put the seventh ringbearer in her place. After all, no matter what Sauron said, Khamul was in charge now with Morgoth's death.  
"What in the name of all the Valar are you doing here?"  
"Hello, Vorea," Khamul said, waving to the third ringbearer as she turned a corner in the hallway. "How was the battle?"  
"You are supposed to be in Dol Guldur!"  
"As everyone keeps reminding me. Well?"  
"We lost," Vorea said bitterly. "Morgoth was slain."  
"I heard. How tragic."  
Vorea's lips twitched. "Yes. Tragic. Still, it was unfortunate that the Corsairs' ships were commandeered by the Heir of Isildur. I was under the impression that he was dead."  
"What gave you that idea?"  
"That you were still alive, Khamul. Your hatred of them is legendary. I am surprised you have not dashed off to Minas Tirith to stab the Heir through the heart."  
"Yeah," Khamul said. "I figure I'll just stay around here. Lay low. Look for the Ring."  
"Ah, Sauron believes it is close?"  
Khamul nodded. "You handle the war. I'll keep an eye out for the Ring."  
It was at that moment that a little orc waddled in. "My lords," he croaked, bowing low.  
"What is it?" Khamul snapped.  
"The captain of the tower of Cirith Ungol humbly requests your attendance at his tower."  
"Why?"  
"I was not informed, lords."  
"I have a war to plan," Vorea said. "Minas Tirith shall fall, whether today, tomorrow, or a year from now."   
"I guess that means it's me," Khamul said with a sigh. "I know there's a place called Cirith Ungol, but I don't know where it is."  
"If my lord would follow me?" The orc started off down the hallway.  
"Do I have to ride one of those Fell Beasts?"  
"It would speed our journey."  
Khamul sighed. "And time is of essence, right?"  
"Yes, my lord."  
Khamul had about as much talent with the Fell Beast as she did with swimming. The orc ended up clinging to her like a tick, whimpering softly.   
"Look, it wasn't that bad!" Khamul snapped. "These damn things are impossible to steer!"  
"Are we there, my lord?" the orc squeaked.  
"Yes! Oh, what's that down there?"  
"Where?"  
Khamul shook off the orc and stood on the edge of the tower, looking down at the vast black plain of Gorgoroth. Squinting, she saw darting movement. Creatures. Two of them. One of them was kind of fat. They were wearing orc armor, but she'd wager they were something else.  
Drawing in a deep breath of air, Khamul smelt Mt. Doom thick in the air. Orodruin was far away, but never far enough, and its smell permeated everything. But not this strongly.  
Khamul turned away. The only way to meet Morion again was in Mandos, which meant death. And she'd be damned if she lived forever as a Nazgul. As a ringbearer, with Morion by her side, she could exist for eternity, but not as a Nazgul. Never as a Nazgul.  
If you had the Ring, a little voice in her head said, you could bring Morion back from the dead. You could depose Sauron and rule Middle-Earth.  
You can't bring people back from the dead, Khamul told herself. You can bring back Maiar and Valar and even elves, but not ordinary people. When dwarves and Men die, they die forever.   
"Forgive me, my lord," the orc croaked, "but this is rather urgent."  
"No, it's not," Khamul said. She opened the trapdoor leading to the tower and glanced inside. "Gosh, it looks like everyone's killed everybody else."  
"What?!" the orc gasped.  
There was not a soul living inside the tower. Even the watchers at the gate had their eyes stilled, and that was by some other power that Khamul was determined to overlook. Never saw it, she thought. If anyone brings it up, I'll just raise an eyebrow and say 'wow, I didn't notice that'.   
The orc looked like he was about to go into shock. "I…I…" he stammered, looking around at the bodies.   
"What were they fighting over?" Khamul asked.  
"The spoils, my lord."  
"Spoils?"  
"We captured a small Man in the spider's lair. He had many valuables with him."  
"Such as?"  
The orc rummaged around in the tangle of bodies before pulling out a shining mail shirt. "This."  
Khamul snatched it away from him. "That's mithril, you damn fool!" she snarled.  
"What, lord?"  
Mithril! A shirt made entirely of mithril! Khamul almost drooled thinking about how much it would be worth. A lot. A whole lot.  
"Shall we take it to the Dark Lord, lord?"  
"Shut up," Khamul snapped. What should she do with this? If Sauron got it, he would be alarmed that someone had broken into Mordor. And even more so if he knew about their escape. And yet, if Khamul threw it away or kept it, it was bound to get out sooner or later, and that would make Sauron even more suspicious.  
"My lord?" the orc asked.  
"Quite right," Khamul said. "We need to give this over to the Dark Lord. It is our duty. However, I think I need some proof of this terrible massacre. Could you just go over there and pick up that huge orc's head?"  
The orc waddled over to the body, and once his back was turned, Khamul drew her sword and cut off his head. "No survivors," Khamul said, wiping her blade on the cleanest piece of cloth she could find. "How tragic."  
Soon enough the mithril was in Sauron's hands, who ran his fingers through the light metal fabric.  
"And the wearer of this finery?" he asked quietly. He was back to speaking quietly. Not a good sign. He'd spoken very quietly during the Last Alliance.  
"I sent him to another tower," Khamul said. "I'm sure the orcs are wringing every bit of information out of him even as we speak."  
"Good. Was he an elf?"  
"A Man, surprisingly. Somehow he had sneaked past the spider and entered Mordor. A renegade of Gondor's army, we think."  
"Not with this. Was he carrying anything else?"  
"Nope."  
Sauron fixed her with a sharp look, which Khamul met. "Very well," the Dark Lord said at last. "This," He shook the mithril shirt, "I will keep. Tell me if the prisoner says anything useful."  
"Of course," Khamul said.  
"You make me suspicious, Khamul."  
"How so?"  
"You are being agreeable."  
Khamul forced herself to laugh. "Since when am I not agreeable?"  
"Whatever secret you are keeping, Khamul, you had better pray I do not find out about it."  
Unless the Halfling chucks the Ring into Mt. Doom, in which case you really won't be able to do anything about it, Khamul thought. She just smiled. "What secret?"


	85. The Last Battle

They did not care for her. Well, they did…in that they cared for her. But they did not like her. She was not one of the Western Men who had come out of the sea from Numenor all those many, many years ago. They also did not like the favor the king had shown her. Least of all, they – meaning the women – disliked that she, and not a man, had slain the Witch-King of Angmar.  
And yet, they were bound to fulfill their king's orders. She wanted to become a healer, and so they gritted their teeth and taught her of herbs and poultices, of how to bind a wound, and how to splint a broken bone. They could sense the impatience in her and suggested that perhaps she tend to the wounded, for there were many, of the Pelennor Fields now that the uninjured survivors had left to go to the Black Gate from which they would not return.  
They would though. She knew they would.  
And that is how Eowyn daughter of Eomund came to be sitting next to the injured man, washing the wounds on his face. She had no idea how one could even be injured like this. It was as if lightning made of knives had struck him square in the face and spread its tendrils out over him.   
Some device of the Witch-King, no doubt. The chief healer had mentioned that the man had upon his arms the same spidery black lines that had been upon hers. Perhaps he had tried to fight the wraith as well. Unsuccessfully. Eowyn couldn't help but smirk at that. She had fought the wraith and done more than survived. She had killed him.  
"Are you awake?" she asked in the gentlest voice she could find. It didn't sound very gentle to her.  
The man didn't respond. Most of the others would moan or twitch or give some sign that they heard. Perhaps this man's body was alive but his soul had departed. The healers had speculated that this was so, and that if he was not better within the week they would give his bed to someone else.  
"Has he eaten anything?" the chief healer asked, poking his head into the room.  
"No," Eowyn said.  
"It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. All the time he's been here he hasn't drank a sip of water or eaten a bite. I wonder if the Nazgul turned him into a wraith."  
"He isn't a wraith," Eowyn snapped.   
"We should just give his bed to someone else. He isn't going to get better."  
"Do you wish to be the man who tells his wife that her husband was left to die by the chief healer of Minas Tirith?"  
"His wife? How do you know he's married?"  
Eowyn held up one of the man's pale, pale hands. Upon one finger a ring sparkled brightly.  
The healer sighed. "Fine. But if, I mean when, the men come back from the Black Gate, they will have many injured with them. If he is not awake by then, he is going out."  
Eowyn scowled at the healer until he left and then she focused on the man. She felt a connection to him; they had both faced the Witch-King and survived. Well, she had survived, he seemed to be hovering between life and death.  
Defeat him! she implored the man with her mind. Show Sauron and the Darkness that there is strength in Men! Do not let him win!  
*  
The days passed in a blur of rounding up orcs and leading them across Gorgoroth toward the Black Gate. Sauron was preparing another attack, and this would not be the Pelennor Fields all over again. This time there would be no Elessar, there would be no victory for the Free Peoples.  
"I don't like it," Khamul said one fine morning.   
"What exactly do you not like?" Vorea asked.  
"The Morannon. I don't like how it looks."  
Vorea sighed. "We did not rebuild it. It was the Men of Gondor."  
"I don't like how they did it."  
"What would you do? Tear it down and build it up again?"  
"Yes."  
"That will not happen until all Arda comes under Lord Sauron's sway."  
"And that'll happen soon enough."  
"Aye."  
"What do you think, Vorea? What do you think about being Nazgul forever and ever?"  
"I have lived like this for so long that I cannot imagine anything else."  
"Do you still have honor?"  
Vorea frowned. "Honor? Since when has Khamul the Haradrim spoken of honor?"  
"Do you think you still have honor?"  
"…No. I do not. I was tempted and I fell and claimed the ring. I have yet to redeem myself for that."  
Khamul nodded and looked into the black sky. "There're a lot of birds up there," she remarked.  
Vorea followed her gaze. "There is an army coming."  
"And how do you know that?"  
"The birds come from the lands outside of Mordor. They flee the approach of an army."  
"Look like Gondor's brought the fight to us."  
"They cannot possibly win. They must know that."  
Khamul shrugged. "Maybe they just want to go out with a bang."  
"No minstrels will exist to sing their praises after their fall. This is madness."  
"Better go sound the alarm. Make sure Sauron knows they're coming."  
Vorea eyed her suspiciously for a moment before hurrying away.  
Elessar's leading them, Khamul thought. It'll be the survivors of the Pelennor Fields. But why is he doing this? Vorea's right, it's madness.  
Think like Elessar. Why is he doing it? The only thing it'll do is kill a few orcs and keep Sauron watching for…a…while…  
That was it! Elessar was drawing Sauron's attention for a while while the Halflings destroyed the Ring.  
Khamul imagined her ring tingled as she thought the dreadful thoughts. Imagine, being free from the ring for the first time in…millennia. So many long, long years. And she could die then. Die and go to Mandos.   
Vorea returned shortly with…something else.  
"What is that?" Khamul asked, looking at the hideous creature riding a sickly horse. It looked like what she always guessed people thought the Nazgul looked like. It was swathed all in black with a tall black helm, but its skin was sick and dead. Its fingers were claws stained with red. Actually, it looked quite a bit like that old Numenorean priest of Morgoth…what's-his-name…  
"I was unaware of this, but he is Lord Sauron's emissary," Vorea reported.  
"Sauron's what?"  
"Emissary. His ambassador, if you will."  
"When has Sauron ever needed an ambassador? No, scratch that. When has he ever needed anyone besides us for his diplomatic work?"  
"I believe he was recruited shortly after the incident between the people of Umbar and Yanta in which a considerable sum of gold was lost."  
"Ah. Right. Well, what's he going to do?"  
"He will speak with this army and explain to them the hopelessness of their situation, instilling fear and despair in their hearts."  
"And then?"  
"We destroy them."  
"Sounds like a good plan to me. Where's everyone else?"  
"Mounting the Fell Beasts."  
"I hate those things."  
"I do not care much for them either." Vorea waved the emissary forward and he started for the gates, which began to creak and open.   
"You ready?" Khamul asked, looking behind them as orcs started to gather like the tide before it hits the shore.  
"Aye. I always am."  
"Are you ready for this battle though? This is it, you know. The one that will decide our fate and the fate of all Middle-Earth."  
"It is just another battle, Khamul. There cannot be more than two thousand men out there. We have a hundred times that number. They cannot possibly win."  
Khamul shrugged and let her gaze drift to Orodruin.  
"After all that I have done for you, you betray me."  
Khamul gasped and nearly fell off her horse.  
"What is wrong?" Vorea asked.  
"Did you hear that?"  
"I can hear very little besides the screams of the orcs and the gate opening."  
"Never mind," Khamul muttered. "Must've been imagining things." Not another sentient mountain! she thought. Great.   
"Even now the Halflings climb my slopes," Orodruin continued. "Even now they climb higher, seeking Sammath Naur. They will die before they reach it, for the creature Gollum follows them with fingers eager to wrap around necks."  
Khamul ignored the mountain. She'd always figured it was in league with Sauron, but it was quite clear now. Why don't you just tell Sauron? she thought.  
"He cannot hear me," Orodruin said.  
Good. Mountains should be seen and not heard.  
Orodruin rumbled in the distance, shaking the ground.  
"The mountain seems angered," Vorea said.  
"Can't imagine why," Khamul said.   
The emissary rode back shortly.   
"What have they said?" Vorea asked.  
"They wish to fight," the creature rasped. It had a horrible voice.  
"And so they shall."


	86. The End of All Things

It was their last battle. If the Halflings were caught and the army obliterated, Sauron would be able to extend his power over all Middle-Earth. And if the Ring was destroyed, then Sauron and the ringbearers would fall.   
The army Elessar had managed to round up was pathetically small. It would be crushed in less than an hour. Such an amount of time was trivial; the Halfling could not reach the Cracks of Doom in that time.  
You damn fool, Khamul thought, spotting Elessar dressed in the armor of his ancestors. You're going to die just like Elendil. And just like him, it's going to be for nothing. You damn fool. I keep giving you life, and you keep throwing it away.  
The orcs cut through the army of the West. Vorea's spear found its mark in a tall man of Rohan. Khamul kept thinking of Eorl.   
She struck down a man of Gondor and saw Isildur in his face, and then it changed to Elendil and she was shaken. Khamul did not serve Sauron anymore. There. She'd said it. She didn't serve him anymore. So why should she kill his enemies?  
Khamul turned her horse from the battle and rode through the orcs. She cut off a few heads here and there. Nothing special. Just to motivate the little bastards.   
And then, just as she was about to leave, she paused. The battle raged around her, each side ignoring the Haradrim on the horse.  
Why should she just leave like a coward? She didn't serve Sauron anymore, and she'd rather see Elessar live. So why didn't she kill his enemies?  
Grinning a savage smile, Khamul raised her sword against the orcs, who fled before the look on her face. She laughed as she sliced them to pieces, enacting revenge for every little injustice they had ever done her.  
In the sky, Nazgul came shrieking down on Fell Beasts. Khamul saw the light glint off an orb and knew it was the palantir. Aica never went anywhere without it now.  
Someone started saying something and Khamul was about to ignore them when she realized that it was horribly, horribly familiar.  
"The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!"  
"Oh Valar!" she exclaimed. "Not again!"  
Swooping down out of the sky, the eagles struck the Fell Beasts, wrestling with them. Several riders fell out of their saddles, and even the Fell Beasts themselves started to tumble to the ground after a while, their throats bitten through by the sharp beaks of the eagles.  
And then, the ring began to burn. Gasping, Khamul bit her lip as pain seared through her hand. The gem was glowing bright as Sauron's voice cut through her mind.  
*The Ring is at Sammath Naur! Hurry to it! Claim it before the Halfling does something rash!*  
Khamul shook her head and wrung her hand. "Solve your own problems," she muttered. "I'm done with you." Except she wasn't. Not as long as the ring was on her finger.  
The few Fell Beasts with riders whirled away from the eagles and sped toward Mt. Doom.  
They were too late.  
A tremor went through the world. Khamul felt her bones shake as if they would shake themselves apart. The burning gem on the ring slowly dimmed until it was just a piece of a metal. Truly a piece of metal. Not an ounce of magic in it.  
And then it turned to rust and fell onto the ground and was lost.  
Looking up, Khamul saw the Barad-dur tremble and collapse, falling to pieces before her eyes. The Morannon crumbled as surely as with the strange explosives of the dwarves. The Towers of Teeth followed suit, and all Mordor fell into ruin as the Army of the West cheered and thrust their swords into the sky.  
The orcs stared in horror as their home collapsed. Then they ran, perceiving that Sauron was gone.   
And he was at that. Khamul felt a lightness in her heart that hadn't been there since…forever. Sauron was gone and he could never return. He was gone forever into the Darkness, beyond the Door of Night.  
She raised her sword and cheered with the men until her voice was hoarse.  
*  
Ceure and Metima flew toward Orodruin, forced on by the will of Sauron. They were shaken to their cores as Sauron departed the land and the rings broke apart.  
"We're free," Metima whispered, staring at her empty finger.  
"Free," Ceure echoed.  
The Fell Beasts were still heading for the mountain. What would happen when they reached it, Ceure had no idea. She could return to Minas Tirith now, and live a fine life until she reached her natural end…   
No. There was no return from the darkness in which she had walked. For some, perhaps, but not for her. She wished only to die in a fashion suitable for a lady of lost Numenor.  
And then the mountain exploded, shooting flames everywhere. A great ball of fire arched out of the volcano's mouth and came roaring at her.   
Ceure remembered the tales of her mother, the tales of the ancient kings who died when their lives were at an end, immolating themselves in a great pyre.  
She stood up on the Fell Beast and spread her arms, welcoming the fire.   
*  
Far, far away in Dol Guldur Ancalime felt the Ring's destruction. "Oh dear," she whispered, looking at the broken, twisted pieces of metal on the ground. "Oh dear." What would she do now? Even Ancalime knew that she could not hope to control the orcs without the power of the Ring backing her.  
And the elves were at the gates too. It was a bleak situation, no doubt about that.  
Ancalime left her room and slipped down the stairs, carefully avoiding all the orcs and any sound of fighting.   
Reaching the dungeons, Ancalime opened a sewer grate and, grimacing, jumped down into the abandoned tunnel. It led into some place in Mirkwood, but anywhere was better than here.   
There were no orcs here, nor elves. She was on a side of Dol Guldur that few went. And beyond her lay a path to…somewhere else.  
I tried, Ancalime thought, looking to where the arrows blackened the sky and the screams of orcs and elves alike filled the air. I really did try, Khamul. I hope you understand.  
And then she turned away from the fortress and followed a rough path out of, into, the forest.  
*  
Aica lay stunned after the fall from the Fell Beast. She heard Sauron's voice pound in her head, and then she saw the ring fall away.  
"Dammit," she muttered. Immortality, invulnerability, gone. At least she still had the palantir, though where it had fallen, she wasn't sure. She could regain the others with time. They could not be all lost with Sauron.  
A rumble behind her alerted her to the fall of the Morannon and the Towers of Teeth.  
Cursing, Aica ran as the rocks and steel tumbled down. A large piece landed not far from her, and she fell to the ground, not moving until the rumbling had stopped.  
"Aica!"   
Aica jumped to her feet and saw Ringe lying some distance away, underneath the shadow of the Ash Mountains. Mountains that were trembling and seemed not done with their shaking and dropping of rocks. Even now small pebbles rained down.  
"What're you doing?" she snapped.  
"I can't get up! Please, Aica! Help me!"  
Aica sighed. "All right, all right," she muttered.  
And then she spotted the palantir. It lay near Ringe, the glistening orb of dark crystal. Her salvation.  
I'll get the palantir and then come back for Ringe, she told herself.   
A deep rumble shook the ground and Aica looked up, seeing a massive boulder shake itself loose from the mountain. It was coming straight down and would crush both the palantir and Ringe.  
"Aica!" Ringe screamed. He saw the rock. He knew his death was nigh. Unless his sister saved him. She was his sister. Of course she would save him.  
Aica made her choice. Ringe's hand was outstretched, straining, waiting for her to pull him to safety.  
Aica's hands closed over the palantir and she ran without looking back. Ringe's tortured scream followed her for a while before being suddenly cut off with such a thud that it buried any crunch.  
"Shouldn't've betrayed me with Morion," Aica spat. "You just got what you deserved, you little bastard."  
"Hello, Aica," Yanta said, stepping into the seventh ringbearer's path.  
"What'd you want?"  
"I see you made it. Good for you."  
"What'd you want?" Aica demanded again. She clutched the palantir close to her.  
"You left Ringe behind."  
"He deserved it."  
Yanta shrugged. "Have you seen Metima?"  
"No. She was still on a Fell Beast."  
Yanta sighed and closed her eyes. "So she's dead then. All right."  
"Get out of my way."  
"You know what?" Yanta asked, her eyes snapping open.  
"What?" Aica growled.  
"I've always hated you." Yanta's sword was in her hands and Aica was carrying the palantir with both of hers.   
There were three thuds as the palantir, Aica's head, and her body hit the ground.  
"Finder's keepers," Yanta muttered, picking up the crystal ball and tucking it under her arm. She looked toward Mt. Doom and saw nothing.   
"Have we now turned even on our own?" Vorea asked softly. She was covered in dust but was otherwise unharmed.  
"Yup," Yanta said. "Have you seen Metima?"  
"No."  
Yanta nodded slowly. "I'm leaving. Coming?"  
"No."  
"All right. What're you going to do then?"  
Vorea looked back toward the battlefield. "I do not know."  
There was a rain of rocks and then someone rolled down the side of the mountain to the ground.  
"Metima!" Yanta exclaimed, helping her up. "Are you all right?"  
"I'm fine!" the former ringbearer said cheerfully. She dusted herself off and smiled weakly. "Ceure's dead."  
"Why aren't you?"  
"The Fell Beast turned and ran away. It was attacked by an eagle up there." She gestured to where the scaly beast still fought with one of the lords of the skies. "So I jumped off."  
"How are you alive?" Vorea asked.  
"Good luck. Also, it was flying pretty low when I jumped."  
"I'm leaving," Yanta said.   
"Where're we going?" Metima asked.  
"East. Vorea? You sure you aren't coming?"  
"Aye," Vorea said quietly. "Ah, here comes a horse. One of the Rohirrim's, I suspect. A fine beast."  
With the horse came a pack of orcs. Big orcs. They were glaring fiercely at the former Shriekers and drawing their weapons.  
"I don't like our odds on this one," Yanta said.  
Vorea smiled and drew her sword. "Take this," she said, thrusting her metal spear into Yanta's hand. "And leave. I will handle this."  
"You're going to die!"  
"I know."  
Yanta handed Metima the palantir and then jumped onto the horse, pulling Metima up in front of her. "You sure?" she asked.  
"I will have my redemption," Vorea said. She raised her sword as the orcs came forth, imagining that she was once more on the bridge in Enedwaith, guarding it against trespassers.  
Yanta rode hard without looking back. She had to though, just once. There was no one standing there. The orcs were all dead, but so was Vorea. She couldn't make out the bodies, but she knew it in her heart.  
"Where are we going?" Metima asked.  
"Like I said, east."  
"East of what?"  
"East of here. We're going east and we are never coming back."  
*  
Eowyn washed the man's face and inspected the scars. They were healing nicely, but it didn't matter if he didn't speak. Why didn't he speak? What was wrong with him?  
"What is wrong with you?" she snapped. She heard something hit the ground and looked, seeing bits of blackened metal. She tried to pick one up and it fell apart in her hand.  
"I don't know," the man said. His eyes were still closed, but he was talking.  
"You can speak!" Eowyn gasped.  
"Yes, surprising, isn't it? I'm afraid I'm rather hungry, and thirsty. Oh, and I think I've got some amnesia. Could you tell me everything that's happened recently?"  
Eowyn's jaw dropped.   
"Are you there?" the man asked. "I would open my eyes, but –"  
"Don't do that," Eowyn snapped. "The scars haven't healed yet!"  
"Ah, scars. I feared there were going to be scars."  
"You were very foolish to challenge the Witch-King to a fight."  
"Yes, I believe I was."  
"Hey! What bastard stole your ring?" The man's wedding ring was gone! Which one of those healers had snatched it? It was probably the chief healer. Well, Eowyn would have a very stern word with him about this. And probably punch him in the face too.  
"Never mind it," the man said. "It never meant much to me anyway. Say, has a Haradrim woman been by here?"  
Eowyn frowned. "No, of course not. We are at war with Harad."  
"Ah, yes, of course." He sighed. "Tell me if you see her. There is something I want to tell her."


	87. Paradise Regained

"Now come the days of the King!"  
There was cheering and shouting and much clapping. Some of the guards banged their spears against their shields. All in all, it was a din.  
"Elessar," Khamul muttered. She was in the back of the massive crowd. It was as if all Gondor had come to see Aragorn son of Arathorn crowned Elessar Telcontar, King of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.  
And not just Gondor either. There were plenty of Rohirrim, the survivors of the Pelennor Fields. And an elf here and there. Khamul had looked for Arwen but seen nothing. Perhaps the faithless wench had gone to the Havens and passed in fear from Middle-Earth, wanting immortality more than the love of the most valiant man in all the world.  
The words of Gandalf were muted in the rear of the crowd, but Khamul had an idea of what he was saying. Sauron is defeated, peace shall reign, et cetera, et cetera.   
There was a tremendous applause that started at the front of the crowd and spread to the back. Khamul clapped as well just because it would look strange if she didn't. And then the crowd started to break up.  
Where Khamul was going to go, she didn't know. Somewhere. Somewhere far away, somewhere where she could die in peace, untroubled by the changing world.  
"Hey! You!"  
Khamul stopped in her tracks. Her temper had not dulled in the slightest since the Ring was destroyed.   
"What?" she snarled, spinning around as a woman dressed in white hurried over, followed closely by a nervous-looking man.  
"You're a Haradrim," the woman said. She had a proud, aggressive look about her. Khamul liked her, or would have if she wasn't being proud and aggressive with Khamul.  
"So what?"  
"There's a man in the Houses of Healing who's looking for a Haradrim woman."  
"You can tell him he can go to Harad. They've got lots of them there."  
"He seemed to think you'd show up."  
"And what makes you think it's me he's after?" Khamul asked. "Tell him to make do with the women of Gondor."  
The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "He wants to tell her something," she said. "He's mostly well, though he's got some bad scars."  
"I don't care." Khamul turned to go.  
"I suppose she might be his wife."  
Khamul snorted. "Gondorians don't wed Haradrim."  
"He had a nice ring. For a while."  
Khamul turned around slowly. "For a while?" No, she told herself. Things get stolen all the time.   
The woman nodded. "For a while. It was stolen."  
"When?"  
"A while ago."  
"And where are the Houses of Healing?"  
"I can lead you there."  
"I don't want you to lead me there. I want you to tell me where they are."  
The woman gave her instructions and Khamul pushed through the crowd, running, almost sprinting, toward the Houses.  
"Please, madam!" a tall, flustered man protested as Khamul burst in. "This is a place of rest and quiet!"  
"I want to talk to someone," Khamul said.  
"I do not believe that your kind has anything to say to anyone here. Perhaps you should check the ashes of your dead. They still litter the Pelennor."  
"I'm going to ignore that," Khamul said, "because I'm feeling very nice right now. It's probably not going to last. Now, there is a man here with some scars."  
"Everyone here has scars."  
"He's also tall," Khamul said, clearing her throat to avoid sounding like she was choking up. "And thin. And pale. Very pale. He looks Gondorian but you'd be hardpressed to guess where he's from."  
The man's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we have someone like that here," he said.  
"Where?"   
There was something in Khamul's tone that told the man that resistance was futile and would lead to him getting his head bashed in. "The gardens. Down this hallway. Take the third door on your left."  
Khamul nodded and ran down the hallway, not even seeing the other people. Everything was a blur. She threw the door to the garden open and ran out into the thick greenery. There were huge bushes and colorful flowers. Even a few trees. It was like a forest.  
Khamul wandered through the garden, not calling out. She had too much pride for that, and she also wasn't sure that…that it really was who she thought it was.  
She emerged from a thick grove of trees and bushes into a grassy clearing. There was a pond nearby, next to which was a bench. It reminded her strongly of the garden in the palace at Armenelos. So it was no surprise that…that…  
"Morion," Khamul whispered, her voice like that of a ghost. A wraith.  
The former Witch-King of Angmar sat on the bench, watching the water. He was thinner and paler than he had been before, but there was a faint color in his cheeks that had not been there for many long years. Of course, that might just've been from the spidery scars that covered his face. They looked red and inflamed now, but one day they would turn white and fade away into his skin. They would always be there though. Never completely gone.  
It was impossible. Just impossible. Morion was dead. Morgoth had taken over his body and then died. There was no way Morion could be here. Except…perhaps when Morgoth had died he had released Morion from whatever nightmare he had been imprisoned in.   
"Morion?" Khamul said, regaining her voice.  
Morion looked up. He smiled, but then the smile disappeared. "I'm afraid it hurts to laugh," he said. "And smile. Unfortunately."  
"You're alive."  
"So it would appear."  
"The rings are gone."  
"With the destruction of the One all the rings of power have lost their strength. When I heard of the victory of the West, I thought that perhaps all the ringbearers had died, and that I alone was spared because I was already…dead."  
"Most of them are. Ceure and Metima for sure. And Ringe and Aica. Oh, and Vorea." Khamul had found her friend's body next to a squadron of orcs. She had died fighting, and fighting the ancient enemy at that.   
Morion nodded sadly, his eyes misting over slightly. Not for Ceure or Metima, nor even for Vorea, and certainly not for Aica. Despite their bitter parting, there was still a soft spot in his heart for Ringe.  
"What of Ancalime?"  
"Haven't the faintest idea in the world."  
Morion nodded slowly. "She will make her way in this world," he said quietly.  
No, she won't, Khamul thought. She's going to die, if she isn't dead already.  
"That leaves Yanta. I don't expect we'll ever see her again if she's alive."  
"Doubt it."  
"So that leaves us, Khamul."  
"Yup."  
There was a long pause, a long moment of recollection as Morion struggled to remember where they had left off.  
"Ah yes," he said quietly.  
"What?"  
"I remember." He stood up.  
"What?" Khamul growled as he walked over to her.  
"I meant to do this a few hundred years ago."  
"Do what?"  
Morion leaned toward Khamul and kissed her gently on the lips. The Haradrim's eyes widened alarmingly and she pulled away.  
"What was that?" she gasped.  
"You said you loved me," Morion said.  
"I do!"  
"And I love you! We're free from Sauron's curse now. The Dark Lord will never trouble us again."  
Khamul nodded slowly. "Yeah," she said quietly. "You're right. You're right…" Sauron was gone, and Morion was back from the dead. Morion. So, there was a reason to live after all.   
And then Khamul seized Morion and pulled him close, kissing him with all her strength while crushing him against her.   
"You're back!" she said after a while.  
"How could I ever stay away?" Morion said quietly. "I love you, Khamul. Until the day we depart to Mandos, and then, beyond."


	88. Epilogue

"Welcome!"  
"You're dead," Sauron said quietly. He wasn't going to open his eyes. He didn't want to see where he had ended up. The Ring had been destroyed. How? How was this possible?  
"No," Melkor said. "The Witch-King of Angmar is dead. I am back in the Void, with you. How amusing!"  
"Oh no."  
"Oh yes. Open your eyes."  
Sauron grudgingly opened his eyes and stared at his former master, his former slave. And now his very much real, very powerful lord and master.  
"If I apologize profusely for everything that occurred, what would happen?" he asked warily.  
"I would cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs. Or whatever lives around here. I've never been very clear on that."  
Sauron nodded slowly. "Then I don't regret a moment of it," he said.  
Melkor threw back his head and laughed. "Don't worry," he said cheerfully. "We have eternity. I'm sure you'll regret it eventually."  
*  
"I say, that was a bit odd," Sam said as they walked back from the party.   
"Odd wasn't the right word," Merry said. "Downright eerie, I'd say. If you lot hadn't seen it, I'd've sworn that I'd had a mite too much to drink."  
"A mite?" Pippin exclaimed. "I'd've sworn that I'd had two barrels too much to drink!"  
There was general laughter at that.  
"Imagine not knowing about good old Mister Frodo," Sam said. "Or Elessar."  
"Or Eowyn," Merry said.  
"Oh yes, or her. She's a good lady."  
"I was thinking of going to visit," Pippin said. "I've spent too long in the Shire."  
Sam shook his head. He couldn't imagine spending too much time in the Shire.  
The three hobbits left the main dwellings of their kinsfolk behind as they walked out into the night. They walked for over an hour before they saw a faint light in the distance. A house, out here in the middle of the green rolling hills under the bright blue sky.  
It took them another ten minutes to get to the house, and they knocked when they arrived.   
"You'll never guess what we saw," Pippin said.  
"What was it?" the man at the door asked. He was a tall Man, no hobbit. And yet he lived here, in the depths of the Shire.   
"I know what they saw," someone else inside the house said.  
"Really?" Merry asked.  
"It was pretty strange," Pippin said. "You know, for a moment, we thought it was –"  
"Me." The woman stepped into the doorway. She had aged well and looked only a little over thirty. The man looked older because of the scars that covered his face, but they were starting to fade away and become little more than spiderwebs.  
"Yeah," Pippin said, nodding. "That's who we thought it was."  
"You know the funny thing?" the woman said.  
"What?" Merry asked, grinning.  
"It was."  
"It was what?" Pippin asked.  
"Me." And with that the woman smiled and shut the door in the faces of the three hobbits, but not too harshly.

  



End file.
